


Just a Click Away

by newest_fanfic_writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, not necessarily canon, university john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:06:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newest_fanfic_writer/pseuds/newest_fanfic_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's final year in university, and after a long night of working in the bar, he needs to escape through a chatsite and meets a mysterious stranger that goes by Sherlock.<br/>Sherlock has finished university, and has wheedled Lestrade into letting him consult for the police. Through an experiment involving deducing others through chatsites, he meets John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...Housekeeping. This is my first attempt at fanfic. It has not been brit-picked, if anyone wants to do that for me, that would be great. I'm planning on posting every Monday, and am also going to do NaNoWriMo next month(if you don't know what that is, look it up, it's great), so you might get more than a chapter a week, however I am also working on a novel and something for scholastic, so maybe not. Not sure how many characters I'm going to bring in, but I'm looking for a healthy mix. I have not written anything beyond the first chapter at this point, so this is going to be as much of a journey for you as it will be for me. Hope you enjoy!

The steady thump, thump, thump of John's cane on the ground broke the silence as he walked back home. Instinctively, he tried to pull his coat closer around him to block out the London night, but the cane gets in the way, and the coat just flaps open again. Each hour longer that he has to stay at work takes more strain on his leg. Why was a man with a cane working at a bar where he had to stand for hours on end? Because he was bloody good at it. He was able to get the orders down the second he heard them, as long as he was paying close enough attention. Sure, he may forget them every once in a while, but usually only when his leg really started to hurt him

His breath created a foggy mist in front of him as he let it out in one long sigh of relief, his eyes catching sight of his door. Hoping that his roommates were still asleep, he pulled the key out his pocket, and turned the lock. Closing the door behind him, he listened closely to the sounds of a normal London night, noting the distinct lack of TV, or obnoxious sounds of his roommates. Grinning for the first time since starting his shift, John moved down the hall towards the kitchen.  
When he had the tea brewing, he sat down, rubbing his leg with his right hand, trying to relax some of the soreness out of it. Trying to keep his mind off the numb pain in his leg, he opened his laptop. After aimlessly flicking through news articles that didn't grab his attention, he saw an ad for a chatroom site promising "the most gorgeous and easy women you'll ever meet!". Maybe not that chatroom site, but talking to another human being through his computer sounded like a good idea. This way, they wouldn't see his leg and pity him; maybe they wouldn't pretend to ignore it even though it obviously bothered them; maybe, he would be able to have some actual, normal conversation for once.

With his tea as a warm friend in the night, he googled chatrooms. Chatty: a great way to meet new friends, One promised. As long as it's not "easy women". He'd seen plenty of "easy women" that night in the bar, and that wasn't what he was interested in. Ignoring his tired eyes, and knowing that he needed to do something to get the bar out of his mind before he went to sleep, he clicked it, and decided on a text chat, typed in John for his user name, and set it to random

SH: hi

Two seconds later

SH: I'm deducing that is the proper way to start a conversation here

Scratching the back of his ear, John typed out a reply, "well, as this is my first time, I wouldn't be much of a reference", and clicked the enter button. Almost right away, a reply came.

SH: but as a normal human being, you'd be a great reference

John: I'm guessing that you don't consider yourself normal

SH: Normal is boring

Looks like John's wish of having a normal conversation was fading into smoke, but he found that he realized that what he wanted hadn't been normal per say, it had been unbiased conversation, and so he found himself almost happily typing a reply back.

John: Then why are you here

SH: Be more specific, do you mean, why am I here, on this earth, what is my goal in life if I do not wish to achieve normalcy, or the more obvious choice, why am I here on this chatroom talking to you

John: The more obvious one

SH: I'm testing my powers of deduction without the aid of human body language.

John: If that's your purpose, then go ahead, tell me what you've figured out about me.

A much longer pause ensued as John waited to see what this stranger would say about him. Either he was a complete arse, or he really did think that he could deduce about his life…or both.

SH: You've either just returned from a night out, or from a menial, but physically-taxing job. Most likely the latter, because you are still looking for escapism through a chatroom. You don't seem unintelligent, so you're most likely at university. You're also fairly confident in yourself mentally, but not physically, most likely because of a defect. You also prefer more direct forms of contact, but you choose to be on a chatsite because you either didn't want anyone to see your appearance before they talk to you because of the defect, or because you are tired of boring, menial conversation…or both.

Several seconds passed as John tried to process this.

SH: Was I right?

John laughed.

John: That. Was. Amazing.

SH: That's not what most people say

John: and what do most people say?

SH: Piss off

John: Piss off? Really? You must not encounter many intelligent people

SH: Excellent deduction

John: Is that sarcasm?

SH: Another thing to note for my experiment. It is difficult for other human beings to detect sarcasm on the internet.

John: Ah, yes. I forgot this was all an experiment. I'm guessing that it is going well?

SH: Yes, I'm learning much about the way humans use language, and the varying use of grammar on the internet that teenagers are able to adopt.

John laughed again. This was the most he had laughed in who knew how long, and it felt right.

John: It's called growing up with the internet

SH: It's called not having proper schooling.

John: I can't disagree with that

SH: you'll find that it is unwise to disagree with me because I am always right

John: The balance of probability indicates that you have to be wrong at least some of the time.

SH: I'll revise my former statement: 99% of the time I am right

A giggle escaped John. He tried to keep it inside, almost as if he was worried that this stranger was going to hear

John: That's as humble as you're going to get. Isn't it?

SH: I find humility is a device used by people with inferior brains.

John: Of course you would

SH: Is that an attempt at sarcasm?

John: Excellent deduction Mr. SH

SH: It certainly was an excellent deduction

SH: But a poor attempt at sarcasm

SH: And it's Sherlock

John: Sherlock, interesting

SH: Most would say strange

John: I would say eccentric

SH: Same meaning, different connotations

John: Different connotations = different meaning

SH: You are not like most people John

John stared at the screen for a few seconds, unsure how to respond to that last comment, it turns out that he didn't have to, because another message showed up a few seconds later

SH: Good bye John, The police are at the door and I must go.

John: Sherlock, don't you dare leave without explaining that.

SH has disconnected.

The "New stranger" button blinked on John's computer. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock hadn't explained, but was still slightly disappointed. Sighing, he closed the window and shut down the laptop. The tea was long since gone, and he took the empty cup back to the cupboard. While talking with Sherlock, he had barely felt the pain in his leg, but now it came back, slightly at first, and he was able to get to his bed with only discomfort, instead of the pain that he normally felt after his long shift.

Lying on his bed, John thought about Sherlock, hoping that he wasn't in trouble, and realized that even though he had very few concrete details about Sherlock: his age, his height, how he looked, hell, he couldn't even be sure that he was a he, John still felt an attachment, almost a need to make sure he was all right. Smiling slightly, John rolled over and slept deeply


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV. Tell me which one you like better. This one's a bit shorter than the first chapter, but I'll try and have a long one for next week. I'm starting to get a lot of great ideas. Enjoy!

Sherlock slammed the door to 221b behind him, letting out a long sigh as he marveled at the stupidity of Scotland Yard. Why couldn't they just see? Why couldn't they realize that it was obviously the ex-boyfriend? Running his hands through his hair, he slumped onto the couch, curling inwards on himself.

"You know it's not good for your posture if you do that dear." Mrs. Hudson said as she walked in, carrying a tray of tea. Ignoring her, Sherlock, curled in on himself further, but eventually he couldn't ignore the allure of tea, and so he dragged himself off the couch. Humming contentedly, Mrs. Hudson walked out, as if she had accomplished some great feat.

Sipping his tea, Sherlock realized that he didn't need to be bored if he didn't want to be, and dragged the laptop towards himself. Chatty, full of imbeciles, except apparently one. He set his search for usernames with John, and became dismayed by the sheer number of them. Never one to back away from a challenge, Sherlock instead started to sort through all the Johns. 

Hours passed as Sherlock, with single-minded intensity, passed through the Johns, quickly dismissing most of them.

John: F or M?

SH has disconnected.

John: hi

SH: hi

John: age?

SH has disconnected

John: Sherlock?

With a slight grin on his face, Sherlock sat up straighter, and typed his response.

SH: Do you realize how many John's are on this infernal site?

John: Enlighten me

SH: 157, 20 of which were old men pretending to be teenagers, 40 of which were actually horny teenagers, and the rest to dull to even mention

John: And under which category would I be?

SH: The outlier

John: Are you going to explain why the police were at your door?

Pausing at the abrupt change in the conversation, Sherlock typed his response

SH: I am sensing anger in your tone.

John: You're right, as always, now tell me

SH: I consult with the police from time to time

John: consult?

Sighing, hoping that this John was actually an outlier, Sherlock replied

SH: Yes, John, consult, as in aid the police in their investigations

John: The police don't consult amateurs

SH: I realized that you were in university, that you were moderately intelligent, that you have a physical defect, and that you work at a menial job, all from just simple conversation on a chatsite.

SH: but you're right

John: about what?

SH: The police don't consult amateurs

John: You are something, Sherlock

At least he didn't say freak.

John: So, what was the case?

Eye brow quirked, happily surprised, Sherlock responded.

SH: A man approached me, believing that his sister's supposed suicide wasn't real. CCTV showed her stepping in front of a bus. But after seeing her twitter account, and her obvious thought that someone was after her, I was inclined to agree that something wasn't right. After going through her facebook account, there was an ex-boyfriend who seemed to be threatening her. By the time I got the idiots at Scotland Yard to see that it was really the ex-boyfriend, he had already left.

John: Brilliant. Just Brilliant

SH: You realize you actually typed that?

John: Sorry. I'll stop

SH No, it's…fine.

SH: Anyway, now that the case is over, there is nothing to keep me from being bored.

John: I disagree

SH: How so?

John: The experiment on deducing people through the chatsite. Surely you can't be done with that already?

SH: I've gotten the most important aspects of the experiment done, and am now just working out a few of the finer points.

John: Such as?

SH: You're obviously bored with your life, so you seek this chatsite, and me, in order to escape it. You're also intelligent and unafraid of thinking that other people are smarter than you. You're also very protective, even though you have barely even met me, indicating a possible career choice in the army or as a doctor

John: How could you tell all that?

SH: First, you asked me about the case, which "normal" people wouldn't care to hear the details, also you demanded to know why the police are at my door, and actively sought me in order to make sure that I was okay, indicating that you are protective, and thus wish to be in the army, or most likely training to be a doctor.

John: Incredible.

John: And though you probably already know it, you are right, I do find my day to day life boring, and am training to be a doctor, though whether I will be an army doctor is hindered by my limp.

SH: Ah. That's your physical defect, a limp. You're quite right, that would hinder your ability to be in the army, but you could be a good doctor.

John: A good, normal doctor, you mean

SH: I doubt you would ever settle for normal.

John: Of course you would think that normal is something that you settle for

SH: And you don't?

John: Well, most people want normal, they want the 9-5 job, the security, the benefits, the white picket fence and the 2 kids

SH: But you don't

Sherlock waited for what seemed an interminably long time. So long in fact, that he looked at his internet connection to see if he was still connected. Previously, John had answered almost faster than he could send it, but now there was no response on the other side.

SH: Was I right?

John: I…I don't know

John: I have to go. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

User has signed off.

Putting his hands in a prayer-like pose to his chin, Sherlock sat staring at the conversation, his brain trying to grasp at the very few pieces of data that he was able to collect from the conversation. In a fit of frustrated energy, he bounded up from the chair, pacing in quick, irritated steps. 

Data! He wanted data. How was he supposed to know more about John if he wasn't able to catalogue the way his body functioned, the way that his limp affected him, the way he responded to cues? Grasping at his computer, he tried to run a trace, but it was too late, he'd just have to do it tomorrow. Surprisingly, he found his lips twitching into a small smile, imperceptible to most outsiders, as he considered the fact that John was out there, planning to meet with him tomorrow, not because he could be helpful for a case, or because out of some "societal" duty, but because he just wanted to talk to him. Sherlock's small smile grew wider.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't read last chapter, or don't remember what happened last chapter, you might want to read the ending or you won't understand what happens...

John stared at Sherlock's latest message. Of course John wanted normal. Everyone wanted normal. That's what made it normal. So why did his message seem so right? Typing a hasty good bye to Sherlock, John strode away from his computer, needing to take a walk to clear his head. Leaning heavily on his cane, he ignored the cold and walked outside, hoping that the icy air would help him think.

He moved without thinking, his body seeming to know where it wanted to go without him directing it. He passed by the buildings. Most dark, as people slept, tired from a long day at work, and needing the rest so that they could do it all again. London at night was different. There were odd rustles in dark alleys, hurried footsteps, hushed words as products switched hands. John felt oddly at ease amongst the London underbelly, almost hoping for an altercation, something exciting. Unbidden, Sherlock's message repeated itself in his head. Something that wasn't normal. His leg throbbing, John leaned against a wall, rubbing it between his hands, his head resting against the wall behind him. Think, John think! Do you really want normal, or is Sherlock right?

As John's mind got thoroughly jumbled up, a sinister voice whispered in his ear.

"Give me your wallet, and I won't kill you." Opening his eyes, John saw a man, his hair lank and long, nearly obscuring his face. His yellow teeth seemed to glow and he leered at him, his trembling hand clutched around a long knife. Repressing a sigh, John looked up and down his new foe, quietly assessing what he would need to do.

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you, but I don't have a wallet on me."

"Forgive me for not believing you." With that the man took a lurching step forward. That was all the indication that John needed. Planting his legs, he swung his cane up, hitting the hand that was holding the knife. It fell to the ground with a clatter. While the man stared dumbly at him, disoriented, he used his other hand to make solid contact with his face. He dropped, his hands clutching his head from where he was hit. Kneeling down next to him, John grabbed the knife.

"Next time you try to rob someone, make sure you're not drunk, and they're not trained." With that, John walked away, barely needing his cane to support him. He reached his dorm in a state of energy and yet, surprising calm, and by the time that he sat down on his bed, he realized that perhaps Sherlock was right, perhaps he didn't want normal. With that thought in mind, John drifted into an easy sleep.

The next morning, John woke up, his leg starting to throb slightly. Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed, grateful that for once he didn't have nightmares. Rubbing his eyes awake, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had over an hour before his next class. Wondering how he would pass the time, his first thought was Sherlock, but thought that Sherlock wouldn't be awake this early in the morning, especially not after their late night conversation. Yes, John realized the irony that he was awake early in the morning, even though he had had he conversation with Sherlock and the altercation with the man, but he barely got any sleep anymore, not since the accident.

Running his hands through his hair, hoping that a shower would help to wake him up, he stumbled to the bathroom. 10 minutes later, hair slightly wet, and still not any more awake, John sat fully dressed on his bed, staring at his laptop. Wrenching his gaze away, he instead grabbed his phone, made a quick text and headed to the cafeteria.

By the time he got there, Molly Hooper was already waiting, eating her oatmeal and staring at a textbook. John got some breakfast and then came to sit at her table.

"What took you so long? It's always awkward when I have to sit here alone."

"You know I live far away, and this is the best cafeteria on campus."

"That's not saying much." She said, as she picked up a piece of her oatmeal and made a face.

"At least it's something." Looking like she wanted to argue with that, but finding that it was impossible to do so, Molly turned back to her book. Trying to get a peek at what was inside, John craned his head, but Molly shifted it so he couldn't read it.

"You know I hate it when people read over my shoulder."

"Then you could just tell me what you're reading and spare me the trouble."

" _Forensics in the Field_ "

"Are you really going to read everything in the library that deals with forensics?"

Molly just gave John a look, and returned to her book. Finishing his breakfast, he had 10 minutes to get to his next class. He tapped the book to get her attention, then said, "Hey, do you wanna go? Professor Truble doesn't like it when we're late." Giving her assent, they packed up and went to Professor Truble's class room.

Professor Truble was the epitome of the phrase, "if you can't do, teach," and took out his bitterness of not being able to do on his students. 3/4 of his class each year failed, and his class was necessary for anyone who wanted to do anything in forensics.

Settling in for another boring, long, dry lecture on blood splatter analysis, John took out his notebook. By the time class finished, he was missing the sleep he had skipped on last night, and his leg was throbbing in a sparks. Grateful that he didn't have to work today, he limped off to his next class, had lunch, and then went to his last class of the day, finally getting back to his room. By the time he was done, his eyes could barely stay open, and he drifted off into sleep that was punctuated by screeching tires and bright lights.

Waking up in a sweat, he realized that it was 10pm. He dragged his laptop towards him, hoping that Sherlock was there and that he wouldn't have to have menial, boring chit-chat with anyone. He set his computer to search for users with the name SH, and was gratified when the username popped up.

John: Hello Sherlock

John: Or should I say good evening?

SH: We must devise a better means of communication

John: What's wrong this time?

SH: Everyone is an idiot, and I don't have time to deal with all of them while I wait to find you.

Feeling touched, and thinking that he shouldn't feel so touched over someone calling the whole world idiots, John typed out his response.

John: What do you suggest?

SH: Put this number in your phone

SH: 021 4302 6798

John: Ok, why? SH: Just do it

John: I'm doing it, don't get your knickers in a bunch.

John: Done. Now why did you give me what I assume is your number?

SH: Come on John, think, I want you to text me. Much more convenient

SH: Text me now so that I have your number. I must go, a possible cannibal is on the loose.

User has disconnected.

John wondered what he got himself into, and without hesitation, typed out a message "It's John", and sent it to the number Sherlock had given him. Hoping that he wasn't texting a murderer, which he doubted, he waited until he got a response before he went to bed.

Not a cannibal, but someone who wants people to believe it was a cannibal. Interesting - SH

And why would someone want you to think it was a cannibal?

Why indeed? - SH

Sherlock, I'm exhausted, I'll talk to you in the morning.

It was only in the moment right before he went to sleep that John realized that he'd given his number to someone who was, by and large, a complete stranger, and it didn't bother him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat, I am from the US, I have no idea how UK universities work. The number that I used is also completely made up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry lovelies, but this is a short chapter this week. I hope the addition of Mycroft will help though

Sherlock glanced at his phone as he was walking out of the house at the message that John had sent. He snorted at how John felt the necessity to inform him who he was, like he got many texts from strangers. By the time he had gotten to the crime scene, he had nearly forgotten about John, only remembering as he was headed to a suspect's house and saw that the location he had traced John's computer to was merely a block away. He typed out a response to John, knowing that his protective instincts wouldn't allow him to go to sleep until he had heard from him.

After questioning the suspect, who had killed his wife and made it appear like cannibalism so that they wouldn't look at the most likely suspect, the husband, and instead look for a deranged serial killer, Sherlock sighed as a rather promising case ended. Lamenting the lack of intelligent murderers, Sherlock walked briskly towards the house that John most likely lived in.

The outside was overflowing with weeds, and no one bothered to paint over the graffiti on the outside. It appeared that all the windows were intact at the least, but the door was heavily bolted, indicating that it had been broken into at least once. Sherlock scanned the outside, looking for a way in, and then hesitated. What usable data would he gain from this? Yes, he would be able to discern John's surroundings and actually be able to see him and judge how he responded to things, but only in his sleep, and if he were caught, John would most likely not talk to him any longer. Sherlock had learned through a rather uncomfortable experience that people didn't like to be woken by someone standing over their bed, trying to deduce things about them. Wincing at the memory, he instead decided to come back in the morning and to see where John went. 

Sherlock headed back to his flat, his mind already deciding what disguise he would need. Something casual, something that wouldn't attract undue attention on a university campus. Not bothering to go to sleep, he instead lay on the couch in order to go to his mind palace and place everything about the case in the hall reserved for such facts, and then focused on finalizing the disguise that he would need. 

By the time that he had everything in order, it was morning, and Sherlock left 221b not in the usual, clipped strides but in a slow, simple walk, almost as if he were hung over. With his shoulders slumped over, a sweatshirt with the hood covering his face and dark sunglasses, he looked for all the world like a drunk college student. He loitered outside of John's building, smoking while cataloguing everyone who walked by.

Around 6:30 am, Sherlock got a text

"You alive?"

Grimacing at John's protective instinct, but slightly pleased that he would have thought of him he replied with a short and terse "Yes". Sherlock got no more text messages, but he looked up at the building, and waited for John to walk out. Only 15 minutes later, a man with sandy blond hair, his posture ramrod straight despite his cane limped outside, to turn around and lock his door behind him. Sherlock practically feasted on all the details that his sight afforded him. Ideas seemed to stream forth like water. Psychosomatic limp, traumatic injury, wanted to be in the army but now can't, nightmares, bored. 

With a casual toss of his cigarette, Sherlock started to follow John, keeping his gaze averted while still trying to absorb all the details that he could get. With a quest for more data, he darted off a quick text, "What, no questions about the case? - SH" Sherlock catalogued John's hesitation, then pause, then stop as he pulled out his phone to check his messages. The ghost of a smile was on John's face as he typed and then sent a quick message and then continued walking, this time with his phone in his hand.

"I assumed that you would tell me what you want to tell me."

John slipped inside a building, and Sherlock started to walk back towards his flat, not wanting to be noticed by John just yet.

"It turns out that the killer was the husband, trying to make it appear that he wasn't the killer by making it seem like it was a deranged cannibal. - SH"

"And how could you figure that out?"

"The police, though idiots, knew that the bite marks were human, but what they couldn't observe was that they came from the victim's dentures, not someone who was actually biting into it. Besides, if it was a real cannibal, they wouldn't have taken random bites that barely tore any flesh - SH"

"Because cannibals are always voracious eaters."

"You would think so - SH"

"I must go Sherlock, I have a class."

Not bothering to even answer, Sherlock kept going to 221b, so that he could discard of this disguise and return to his belstaff. Wrapping the Belstaff around his shoulders like an old friend, he felt like himself again. Sherlock settled on the coach, his hands in a prayer-like under his chin as he tried to catalogue all the data that he had gained from this encounter. Just as he entered his mind palace, a voice announced itself.

"Brother mine, why do you insist on ignoring me?"

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock responded, "Oh, you texted, I didn't realize." He could practically feel Mycroft's eye roll. A fit of frustration hit Sherlock and he bounded out, crowding into Mycroft's space. Mycroft's face flashed momentarily surprised until it returned to its former vacant expression. Smirking at his small victory, Sherlock spat, "Now get out"

"I don't see why I should."

"I was in the middle of something."

"You always are, little brother, when I want you to do something."

"Whatever you need doing, you can do yourself." Mycroft sighed dramatically.

"I don't know why you insist on this childish rivalry, Sherlock"

"I don't know why you insist on intruding in my home whenever you need some small job to be done."

Mycroft's voice grew stern. "Sherlock, this is a matter of national security. I am no longer asking you to take this case, I am ordering you to do so." With that, Mycroft placed a manila envelope on the little available space on the kitchen table and then strode out, twirling his umbrella in his hand. 

Sherlock strode over to the door and slammed it behind him, returning to his former pose on the couch, studiously ignoring the envelope that practically made his eyes itch. Instead, he focused on John, trying to puzzle out his history from the brief glimpses he got, and found himself forgetting that the envelope was even there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I am a terrible human being. I should be ashamed of myself, and I am. I am so sorry that I did not update last week, but to make up for it, here is a nice long chapter, and we get some back story, and a new character. Enjoy!

John tossed and turned in his bed, dreams making him relive memories that were best kept in a locked box.

_John walked away from his home, strong and straight. His anger seemed to blot out every emotion. WHY? WHY CAN'T THEY JUST LISTEN? He wanted to scream and yell, and let the whole world know the anger that he felt at the very thought of his parents, complacent and non-caring. Their faces rose in his mind, telling him that he should just give up on his dreams, that they weren't worth pursuing, that they were just trying to "help" him. He kicked out at the tree next to him, not even feeling the pain in his toe as he walked away._

_A car pulled up beside him, and honked twice. Annoyed, he looked at the driver, and saw his father. His face contorting with rage, he chose instead to walk away, trying to hope that he would go away…_

John woke up, gasping and writhing, the pain in his leg all too real. He gasped as he remembered the pain from that long ago accident, not just the pain of the actual injury but from what came after, from thinking that he was worthless, that he needed to give up, be something simple. Maybe he should just… _No, don't think like that._ Trying to rid his mind of all though, John swung out of bed, and hissed as his leg gave him renewed pain.

He walked out of his dorm, his cane swinging in front of him, barely registering his surroundings, the pain in his leg reducing him to a terrible crawl. Finally, he sat on the steps to what may have been the library, but honestly, he didn't give two fucks about where he was. He leaned back, trying to put the memories to the back of his mind, but they flashed forward without his consent.

_Screeching tires. Pain, red hot pain, arcing through him, there was nothing except the pain, nothing except the all-consuming red. His pain consisted of the real pain, but also his anger, and his hurt. Was that him screaming? How could it be him screaming? Those screams came from the mouth of someone who was dying, or more accurately, the mouth of an animal. Was he dying? Perhaps it would be better to die than to live with this pain any longer…._

NO! Stop thinking, John! He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, trying to rub away the memories. His hand found his phone without him even thinking about it. Staring at it, he wondered if Sherlock would talk tonight, about whether it was even a good idea to be texting someone who was, in all actuality, probably a complete stranger.

"Hi" It shocked John how long it took him to write that simple statement, and then he stared at it for moments longer, wondering whether it was a good idea to even send it. Berating himself for acting like a love-struck teenager, he sent the message, and be damned if it was 1 in the morning.

He continued to rub his temples, his leg still throbbing insistently, not letting him forget. To his surprise, he received a text nearly right away.

"What was the nightmare about? - SH"

"How did you know it was a nightmare?"

"You just confirmed it. Besides, why else would you text at 1 in the morning? - SH"

"If I tell you what the nightmare was about, will you tell me something in return?"

"I despise getting into bargains, but if necessary I will do so. What do you want to know? - SH"

What did John want to know about Sherlock? That should be an easy answer. Everything. His height, his age, his hair color, how he liked his tea, whether he was even in London, whether he was in England. He decided on the question that was the least intrusive.

"What are you doing awake at 1 in the morning?"

"Sleep is an unnecessary waste of my time. Why sleep when I have the work to do? - SH"

"The work?"

"Yes, John, the work, as in my work solving crimes for the police. Do keep up. - SH"

"Sorry that my brain isn't working so well at 1 in the morning."

"What was the nightmare about, John? - SH"

John fiddled with his phone, trying to decide how to answer. He liked Sherlock, he even trusted him, but that didn't negate the fact that he still didn't know him all that well. He went with the diplomatic answer, polite, but vague.

"The accident that injured my leg so that I have my limp."

"Obvious, John. I need facts, details, data in order to form a conclusion. - SH"

John let out an exasperated chuckle. Of course Sherlock would want to know all the details about something that was intensely personal to John and still caused him to have nightmares, even 5 months later. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to figure out how to respond.

"You can't just ask about intimate details of someone's life, Sherlock"

"Why not? - SH"

Shaking his head, John replied, "Never mind, I don't expect you to be like most people anyway. But you have to realize that I have my limp for a reason, and I'm not going to divulge it to just anyone."

Sherlock remained silent for a long time, and John wondered why what he had said might have made him stop talking. After 15 minutes had gone by, John pondered between texting him back and asking what was wrong, or just leaving and going back to his room and try for a little more sleep. Sighing, he got up from the steps he was sitting on. He looked up at the building in front of him. As it turns out, it was the library.

As John started to walk away, he saw what looked like someone walking in the opposite direction. A black coat billowed like a cape behind him, his footsteps quick and sure. John couldn't make anything else out, but he wondered who would be out here so late, or so early.

His question was answered soon enough, as a body bumped into him. Turning around, he recognized the drunk form of his friend, Mike Stamford. He was hunched over, his hands grabbing onto John's shoulder, trying to stay upright as hysterical giggles nearly brought him to his knees. John staggered for a moment as he registered the new weight, and then used his cane to give him some extra support.

"John, you wouldn't believe the night I've had." Mike slurred.

"Jesus Mike, how much have you had to drink?"

"Only enough to feel really happy." Mike devolved into hysterical giggles again, and John dragged his arm over his shoulder. John wrapped his arm around Mike, holding him under the arm, and walked with his cane supporting him.

"Why weren't you at the party?" Mike whined, his breath nearly making John drunk by mere contact.

"I have a big test tomorrow and I needed to sleep."

"I guess that makes sense." With a look of intense concentration, Mike stared at John.

"What?"

"I'm just wondering if you're out here, then how do you plan to sleep?" John laughed.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh." And then Mike threw up in a bush. The walk back to Mike's dorm seemed to take forever, and all of John's energy was focused on making sure that he didn't fall over at every other step. Once Mike was settled in his dorm, and John had his actual dorm mates deal with him, John headed home, his head pounding and his leg throbbing. He sat on his bed, and absently thought of Sherlock. He pulled out his phone, saw that there were no new texts, and closed his eyes, his body tense and unable to fall asleep. Hours later, his body relaxed just enough to fall into a slight doze, not wanting to go deep enough to have any more memories. His mind drifted to the weird stranger that he had seen walking away. Who was he?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV. Not exactly a long chapter, but not exactly a short one either... If you're wondering when I'm going to have the two of them meet(and both know that they're meeting) then we both have the same question, and the jury's still out on that one.  
> *If I have not already said this, let me say it now. If there are annoying Americanisms in this, I am really sorry  
> *I read over it this morning and found some grammar issues and fixed them. No major plot point changes

Sherlock stared down at his phone, his brain seeming to come to a halt at the text he had been given. His mind making one simple deduction, and then not being able to move on from it.

"Never mind, I don't expect you to be like most people anyway. But you have to realize that I have my limp for a reason, and I'm not going to divulge it to just anyone."

He didn't mind being unlike most people, in fact, reading that had brought a smirk to Sherlock's face, glad that John had noticed that he was different than all the other idiots on this planet. And then he read those last two words. "Just anyone". For some reason, after reading those two words, Sherlock couldn't form any opinions. From a logical standpoint, they had only been conversing for a short while, but it still hurt to be considered as "just anyone". He felt a stirring in his chest, something that he hadn't felt for a long time, and he repressed it, squashed it, made it into a tennis ball and then threw it in the trash in his mind palace. Caring is not an advantage, and Sherlock would do well to remember it. So why did he keep staring at his phone?

He looked across to where John was sitting on the library steps and he was able for the first time to really deduce about John, sitting there, waiting for something. His hands aimlessly played with his phone, his mind preoccupied, his leg was straight and level as he was sitting, and he didn't seem to be favoring it. His hair was growing out after a recent army cut, probably because he had been training to go into the army and the accident that he got his limp from prevented him from becoming a soldier. But what was that incident? It was difficult to tell without delving into John's hospital records.

Sherlock was broken from his reverie by John standing up, his feet spreading out and settling on the ground, his hands picking up his cane and leaning heavily on it. Not letting himself take a longer glance, Sherlock turned and walked away, his coat flapping in the wind behind him. His phone securely in his pocket, determined to show that he could last without talking to John for a while. It didn't matter that the only one this would prove anything to would be himself, and that it was making him miserable in the process.

He practically leaped up the steps to 221b, shutting the door behind him, and hanging up his Belstaff. His gaze fell on the manila envelope that Mycroft had left, and he wondered if perhaps he should try to forgo one distraction for another. His hands stretching out with all the caution one might use to approach a rattlesnake, he picked up the manila envelope, and inspected it. Plain, indicating that the envelope choice was not consciously done. No creases, indicating that the person who handled it was meticulous both with the things that he wasn't sure he would need, and with the important files. Normal smell, indicating that this is the only thing it is used for, which further indicates that it is important, but the simple act of Mycroft ordering him to work on it indicated that. With a sigh, he hoped that it would be enough of a distraction to get John off his mind, so he pulled at the envelope and opened it. Inside were several sheets of paper, all detailing confidential government files. With a small smile on his face, Sherlock got his board ready.

The chime of Sherlock's phone rang, signaling that a new text had come in, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the project, no, the distraction. Then it rang again…and again…and again. With a sputter of exasperation, he ran his hands through his hair and then picked up the phone.

"Sherlock we need your help" Lestrade

"Suicides appear to be connected" Lestrade

"Come at once" Lestrade

Sherlock smirked at the Detective Inspector's belief that he could order Sherlock around, but he had to admit, serial suicides were far too interesting for him to pass up. With a glance at Mycroft's project, Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff and whirled out of 221b to investigate this "suicide".

He didn't hear from John until noon the next day, and by then he was at St. Bart's, trying to figure out what poison had killed all 3 of the suicide victims.

"Did I say something wrong?" Sherlock frowned at his phone, trying to decide if John was being purposely obtuse, or whether he really wondered if he had done something wrong. Trying to go for the least leading question, in order to find out what John's true intentions were, Sherlock replied, "Why would you think that? - SH"

Though he didn't like to admit it, he could barely see what he was supposed to be observing in the petri dish underneath the microscope, one eye on his phone. With a sigh of exasperation, he pulled his full attention onto the microscope. Caring is not an advantage, he repeated to himself, pulling himself closer to the microscope lens. Sherlock's phone rang and he picked it up almost immediately.

"You didn't respond to my texts, and I was worried that something had happened." Sherlock almost wanted to roll his eyes at the protectiveness that John already displayed. Didn't John realize that they were distant, that this phone separated them, that they could not come into such a close relationship that John could protect him? All these thoughts flittered through Sherlock's head, but the most prevailing feeling(and he shuddered to think that he not only had feelings but wanted to indulge them) was contentment, and security that there was someone else out there who was looking out for him, who had his back in a crisis, and so it was with a minimum of snark and sarcasm that he replied.

"Sometimes I get too caught up in my work to respond to others. Trust me, if something had happened, I would be able to find a way to tell you - SH"

"You're impossible, you know that, right?" Sherlock frowned again at his phone, wondering how many times he could frown and feel confused over one human being.

"I should rephrase that. You're impossible, incredible, and absolutely brilliant."

"You think so? - SH" Sherlock liked to believe that he kept the whine out of his tone, almost.

"I know so. Who else would be able to say that they would find a way to let someone else know if they had been hurt or kidnapped?"

"Considering that I am one of the few on this planet who is not an idiot, I would think only a small amount of people would be able to fill that criteria. - SH"

"I have to go to class now, I'll talk to you later Sherlock." Sherlock smiled absentmindedly as he went through the motions of looking through the telescope, until he had identified what he was looking for and headed back to his flat in a whirlwind. He stared at his wall, his hands steepled below his chin. On one side was the serial suicides, on the other was a small picture of John. With more frequency than he cared to admit, his eyes drifted over to John's picture, until eventually he had to pull it down so that he could focus on the Work. If he didn't have the Work, he didn't have anything. He placed the picture underneath a book, and promptly returned his gaze to the wall, trying to figure out these serial suicides.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realize how late this is and I am so sorry, but things have been crazy and hectic lately, and I haven't been able to write. Don't worry, I won't just leave this, I will see it through to the end. I probably won't be able to update next week because it's exam week. Hope you enjoy!

John looked at the texts that Sherlock had sent him. It appeared that he had been upset about something that he said, but all signs of annoyance and sadness were gone by the second text. John chuckled at Sherlock's belief that he would be able to tell him if something was wrong and that John shouldn't worry about that. Of course John would worry. Who else did he know consulted with the police and dealt with fake cannibals?

John went to class, actually looking forward to his next class on trauma related injuries and methods of treatment. The professor for this class was someone who both loved the subject, and loved teaching, a rare combination that was to be honored and respected and was noticed. It had taken John a long time to get into this class, and it was always crowded. He walked up to Professor Melville's room and shuffled along until he was able to find a seat, and then realized why that seat was still open. It had the unfortunate coincidence of being right behind someone who was really tall, and next to someone who seemed to believe that wearing deodorant was beneath them. Trying to shift his seat so that he could see, and breathing through his mouth, John set up his notepad to take notes.

The class got underway, and John listened as what Professor Melville said actually made sense. His phone buzzed, and he tried to ignore it, but then it buzzed again and again

"John, someone is killing people but making it appear as if they are killing themselves - SH" "Ooh that's clever? Is that clever? Why is it clever? - SH" "John, why aren't you responding? -SH" John rolled his eyes and replied. "Sherlock, I told you that I had class. I'm kind of busy at the moment." "John, lives are at stake - SH" "And my grade is at stake if I don't pay attention." "I didn't want to interrupt your incredibly mundane lesson with my interesting case. Go ahead, let your mind be dulled by "higher education" while I actually do something valuable - SH" "I'm going to ignore the contempt in your voice because I know you're just trying to draw on my sense of pride and my protective instincts. You won't get me off track. I need to focus, and I know you can solve the case on your own." "Of course I can, that was never in any doubt, but the speed at which I am able to do so, and the number of lives that I save can change - SH" Inwardly cursing, John replied "what can I do to help?"

"Finally, an appropriate answer - SH"

"If you were trying to kill someone, how would you do it? - SH"

"Assuming that it is premeditated, and that I don't want to get caught, I would make it look like an accident, falling off a cliff, car accident etc."

"Exactly, you wouldn't want to make it obvious that it was murder and that it was linked to you. Except if you were a genius and wanted to show off your handiwork. - SH"

"Right...what's the point of this Sherlock?"

"The point? Isn't it obvious? - SH"

"Not to me"

"What must it be like in your silly little brain? - SH"

John stared for a moment at his phone and was just about to type a scolding comment when another text came in.

"The point is that this killer is displaying both sets of tendencies. He is making the killings appear to be suicides, but also making them clearly linked. One piece of evidence seems to suggest a crime made by a "normal" person. The other suggests one made by someone who is a genius. - SH"

"Should I be alarmed that you appear to be admiring a murderer's work?"

"You're missing the point again John. I need to collect more data before I can draw a hypothesis. - SH"

John stared at his phone, trying to figure out the question that Sherlock had made. Why would someone both appear to make it seem like they were trying to cover up their crime, but also make it blatantly obvious that they were murdering people? The only thing John could think of was that they were deliberately trying to attract the attention of Sherlock, but that would undermine Sherlock's theory that they were a genius, because only someone who was really foolish, or really arrogant would want Sherlock to investigate their crime.

"The only thing that I can think of is that they are trying to attract your attention."

"Oh, that's interesting. Time to be off John. I have a new theory to investigate. - SH"

Of course it was okay for Sherlock to interrupt his lesson with his case, but John couldn't interrupt Sherlock while he was busy. John sighed, but while his eyes returned to Professor Melville, his thoughts remained with Sherlock and the murderer that was most likely after him. It was time that John figured out more about Sherlock.

When he got back to his apartment, he looked up Sherlock. How many people could have the first name Sherlock? Inwardly, he kicked himself. Why hadn't he done this sooner? He would have been able to learn more about Sherlock and what he actually did. 

"I found your website, the science of deduction"

"Oh? What did you think? - SH

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. But it's just not possible"

"And I can read your army dream and medical doctor hopes in your texts. - SH"

"How do you do that?"

"You said that you found my website, so you tell me - SH"

"You deduced that from me? But how?"

"I believe we've already been over this. I dislike repetition - SH"

"Fine, then why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

"Like what? You already know everything of importance. - SH"

"All I know is your name, your job, and the fact that you're brilliant."

"Exactly. The important aspects. Do keep up - SH"

"What about your age, what country you live in, height, just general things."

"So this is what "normal" people want to know about people that they meet - SH"

"I know that you're not normal, but indulge us little people"

"Fine, most of what you asked can't be deduced anyway, so I might as well tell you and I'll make sure to do it "properly" - SH"

"Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am 23, I am the only consulting detective in the world. I am 183 cm tall and have brown hair - SH"

"You hated doing that didn't you?"

"I despised it and will never do it again - SH"

"Then perhaps I should take a picture of that text and save it."

"If you want it as proof that Sherlock Holmes is human, you might as well - SH"

"I know you're human. I don't need a text to prove that to me."

"Of course you do. - SH"

"Is that sarcasm I detect?"

"Of course. Who hides in plain sight? - SH"

John shook his head at the abrupt turn of direction in the conversation.

"Sorry, what?"

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? - SH"

"I don't know, who?"

"Haven't the faintest. - SH"

"Are you going to tell me why you asked me that now?"

"The killer abducted his victims, right from the heart of London. All of the victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. So who took them?"

John should have been paying attention to the rest of the text. He really should have. He should have been trying to help Sherlock find this murderer so that no one else would get killed. He should have. Instead, he stared at the word "London". Such a simple word, but it meant that Sherlock was here, in the same city. John could have passed by Sherlock in the street, never realizing that it was him. John immediately put that thought out of his mind. By God, Sherlock was a drama queen, he would have noticed him.

"You live in London?" Aware of how stupid it sounded after he sent it, John waited for a response.

"A simple deduction, but a true deduction none the less. Yes, I live in London. Is that important? - SH"

"No, not at all. Is there anything that I can do to help?"

"I think that is all for now John. I must dash! - SH"

Of course Sherlock would have to "dash", he didn't have to go, or leave, he had to "dash". Yes, John definitely would have noticed Sherlock if he had met him before.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let's just pretend that the Northumberland scene at Angelo's happened already while Sherlock was by himself, just because it makes sense.... Anyway, this one is really heavily based on the final scene between Sherlock and the cabbie. For this I am extremely grateful for Ariane DeVere and her lovely transcript of A Study in Pink which can be found here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/42853.html . I would also like to point out that I cut a lot of the scene, partly because I'm lazy, and partly because it wasn't truly necessary and I'm tired. I might go back tomorrow and add the parts I skipped over. Leave a comment if you feel that I really need to add some parts. As always, thank you for reading, and Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays or Happy New Year!

Sherlock shrugged on the Belstaff, already unconsciously putting his phone away in this pocket. As he closed the door behind him, his hand stayed gripped around the phone, and he focused on the case in front of him. In truth, he didn't really know where he was going, he just knew that physical exercise often stimulated his brain when it was difficult for him to put the puzzle together.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes." 

"No, no I didn't order a cab." Sherlock said, already turning around to go back down the street, his mind seeming as if it was on the very edge of discovering that missing link, that final piece to reveal who the killer was. 

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! Wouldn't I…Oh" Suddenly Sherlock's whole face seemed to lighten and darken all at once, as if the truth brightened his face, and the terrible face of what the truth meant darkened it at the same time.

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street."

"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

Sherlock took a few more steps forward toward him. His head tilted to the side, trying to figure out the cabbie's motives.

"Is this a confession?"

"Oh, yeah. And I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cause you're not gonna do that."

"Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them, and they killed themselves. And If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." He leaned forward, the look in his eyes both superior and greedy, "I will never tell you what I said." The two stared at each other for a moment, each trying to figure out what the other's next move would be until the cabbie finally straightened and started to walk around toward the front of the cab.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result"

"And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" With that he opened the driver side door, settled in, and refused to look at Sherlock. Sherlock hesitantly walked forward until he was outside the open side window of the cab.

"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you…and then you're gonna kill yourself." Sherlock only hesitated for a moment before he pulled the door to the rear open and sank inside. The cabbie only smiled

"How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I’ve been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

"Who warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who’s noticed you."

"Who?" Sherlock leaned forward, looking around the interior of the cab.

"Who would notice me?"

" You’re too modest, Mr. Holmes."

"I’m really not."

"You’ve got yourself a fan."

"Tell me more."

"That’s all you’re gonna know … in this lifetime" The cab finally came to a stop, and the cabbie got out of the car until he was outside Sherlock's door.

"Where are we?"

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It’s open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" The cabbie pulled a gun up to Sherlock's face and stares at him nonchalantly.

"Oh, dull." Sherlock said with a little roll of his eyes

"Don’t worry. It gets better."

"You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint."  
"I don’t. It’s much better than that." He lowered the gun. "Don’t need this with you, ’cause you’ll follow me." He confidently walks away, not even bothering to look back. Sherlock sits for a moment, then grimaces in exasperation and jumps out of the cab to follow the man.

They entered into what appears to be a used classroom, the lights low and glaringly flourescent. Together, they sit opposite each other at a table. Sherlock sweeping his coat out behind him in order to avoid sitting on him. In silence, the cabbie pulls out a bottle with a pill inside. Sherlock stared at it, not showing any emotion.

"Ooh, I like this it. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out an identical bottle with an identical pill and putting it on the table.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"Ther'es a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good botle, you live; you take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"And you know which is which"

"Of course I know"

"But I don't"

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then together we take our medicine." Sherlock leaned forward with a grin, his elbows resting on the table as he looked at the bottle with renewed interest.

"I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you Mr. Holmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice."

"And now I'm givin' you one." He slid the bottle on his left toward Sherlock and bites his lip as he slides his hand back. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." Sherlock stared at the bottles and then looked up at the cabbie.

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here." The cabbie sighed and effortlessly pulled up the gain and pointed it at Sherlock.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Sherlock smiles and looks him in the eyes.

"I'll have the gun, please"

"Are you sure?"

"The gun" Sherlock said, his voice resonating with more strength and more power than before. The cabbie's mouth tightens as he squeezes the trigger and a small burst of flame comes out of the end of the muzzle. Sherlock smile broadens into a smug grin."

"I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did."

"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." Sherlock stood up, and pulled out his phone where an alert showed him a message from John. He was just about to open it when the cabbie spoke up again.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out? ….Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then… just so I know whether I could have beaten you" Sherlock looked at the message blinking on his phone, and thought of the man behind it, and the fifty/fifty chance that lay behind him, that made his adrenaline soar and his mind finally feel alive. 

"What I do want is the name."

"Ah come on Sherlock. I can't just give you the name for no reason." Sherlock slowly turned around to face him.

"For nothing? I just beat you. I deserve to know the name." The cabbie gazed at him, opened his mouth, and then a shot rang out, and he lay on the floor, blood pooling around him. Sherlock dashed over, and then looked at him.

"The name! Tell me the name!" The cabbie slowly shook his head. Sherlock pressed his foot into the wound.

"You were just about to tell me, now do it."

"My children, if he doesn't mind killing me, he'll kill them too." Sherlock pressed his shoe harder into man's wound.

"You're dying, but I can still hurt you, now tell me the name!"

"Moriarty!" He screamed and then his body slumped and his eyes turned into glass orbs. Sherlock hurried over to the window, trying to figure out who did it, but no one was there. Instead, he looked at his phone, and read John's text. "Figure it out yet?"

"Indeed. Even apprehended the culprit, in a way - SH"

"In a way?"

"The important part is that he won't kill again, correct? - SH"

"Yes, but I still want to hear the whole story. What was his motive?" Sherlock smiled, and proceeded to type out the text explaining everything.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...long time no see. I really am very very sorry that this has taken so long to get put up, but I have been insanely busy with school, and finding a service project and Model UN(insanely fun, if you don't know what it is I recommend you look it up, and if you like what you read, try it, it is much more fun than you would think. Go for the Crisis committees. But anyway). But enough excuses, I also have a terrible disease called procrastination, and for some reason this fic wasn't calling to me. I am very sorry to keep you waiting, but I hope it was sorta worth it. From now on, I will try to be more diligent.  
> On to today's chapter: John's POV, more Mycroft, and a phone call! Things are certainly getting spicy for these two ;)

John looked at his phone, not quite believing what was happening. It was quite simple, it happened several times a day, but still his eyes couldn't stop staring at the phone. It said that he had a phone call from Sherlock. With a steady hand, but wide eyes, he used his phone to slid the answer key to on and then raised his phone to his ear.

"Hello?" He then licked his lips because he couldn't quite get his voice to work properly. 

"John" Sherlock said. John took a slight step backward, even though there was no one to step back from, as he heard Sherlock's voice for the first time. It was rich, velvety, if that was even a word. It was the deep baritone of an adult, not the young, coming of age that he had expected. He coughed, putting his hand to his mouth.

"John, are you alright?"

"Of course, why did you call?"

"You wanted to know what happened. This is more efficient."

"Then go ahead" A slight smile creased his face. 

"It all started with the pink case. The killer made a mistake and I was able to exploit that mistake…" Sherlock kept going. Going into detail about how he had tracked down the killer based on the GPS on her phone, how he had gone in a cab with the killer, and how he had deduced that he had been killing people in order to give money to his children for after he died. Then how a shot had rung out and he had died, only leaving the name "Moriarty".

"Moriarty? What's that?"

"Something new." John could hear the slight grin in Sherlock's voice.

"Listen Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?"

"You did just see a man die"

"He wasn't a very nice man." John smiled.

"True, and he was frankly a terrible cabbie"

"You should have seen the route he took" They both laughed, even though John could hear Sherlock being cut off by someone else.

"Sherlock are you still at the crime scene?"

"Yes" John just laughed harder, even as he tried to stifle himself.

"You can't be laughing at a crime scene. It's not decent!"

"Well you are"

"But I'm not there" They both calmed down, and as John's chuckles started to get farther and farther apart, the silence turned into companionship.

"John I have to go. I'll talk to you soon."

"Alright Sherlock. But promise me that you'll eat something, and that you'll sleep"

"It's all just transport"

"Sorry?"

"My body is just transport for my mind, it hardly needs to be indulged" John put his head in his hands, as he slowly shook it.

"Eating and sleeping are not just "indulging" some weird quirk, they are necessary for human life, and you will go eat something and sleep."

"Fine" Sherlock's tone was curt and clipped.

"Promise?" The sigh on the other side was long, drawn out, and didn't fool John for a moment.

"I promise."

"Good, now go." Sherlock disconnected the line. John continued walking in the park, his gaze upwards towards the stars and the many twinkling lights that waved down on him. He smiled, and moved over to a park bench, and then stared up, knowing that he was going to give himself a crick in his neck, and not caring at the same time. 

He vaguely felt someone walking towards him, but he ignored them, that is until they sat down next to him. His body tensed, and he glanced over at him. Nice suit, professional brown hair, twirling an umbrella in his hand even though it wasn't close to raining. 

"Hello Mr. Watson" John tensed up, and he gave the man an even longer glance, but he wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't just figure out everything about the man. He gripped his cane tighter, but otherwise made no other move.

"Who are you?"

"No one of importance" John gave a mirthless laugh.

"Your suit says otherwise."

"What's your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't really have one. We've just been texting."

"Yes I know. You've practically texted every day, and even made a phone call. How quaint."

"I don't know who you are, but I really don't think any of this is your business."

"It could be"

"I don't see how"

"Are you going to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Still none of your business."

"If you are, then I could pay you a meaningful sum of money every once in a while" the man continued without bothering to recognize John's statement.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because you're not a rich man"

"In exchange for what?" John's voice was bordering on the edge of loud, and his face was tight and tense.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you would feel uncomfortable with"

"No"

"You are very loyal, very quickly"

"I'm really not. I'm just not interested" John stood up and then made to walk away, and then turned back to him. "Why?"

"I worry about Sherlock, constantly"

"That's nice of you, but who are you?"

"I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock has, an enemy?"

"An enemy?"

"He would say archenemy. He does love to be dramatic" John just nodded and then walked away.

"Take care Mr. Watson, I'm sure we will see each other again soon." John just ignored him and kept walking, but he pulled out his phone. During this whole altercation, Sherlock had sent a text. John opened it, and it showed a picture of some sort of Chinese food.

"See, I am eating - SH"

"Sherlock I just met a friend of yours"

"A friend? - SH"

"He said that you would call him your "archenemy""

"Oh. Yes - SH"

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. - SH"

"Right now my problem is figuring out the quickest way to eat this lo mein and then going home to sleep, as I promised someone that I would do. - SH"

"Sherlock…"

"Have a wonderful night John! - SH"

 

John threw his hands up in the air, wondering when he had signed up for a giant toddler, and wondering why he didn't really mind all that much.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late. again. I really need to work on that. As usual, not betad or brit-picked. Sherlock's POV

The low murmur of Sherlock complaining about the world could be heard in the flat over the sound of Mrs. Hudson busily making tea. He squirmed and wriggled from his position on the couch, first starting on his side facing the back of the couch, and then ending facing the kitchen, though he obviously wasn't actually looking at the kitchen. He closed his eyes, and then without moving, screamed, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"No need to shout dear, I'm right here." Mrs. Hudson said as she moved out of the kitchen, rubbing her hands on a towel.

"Why is everyone so dull! Why can't anyone ever do anything interesting!"

"Don't be so dramatic Sherlock, I'm sure a good murder will turn up soon." Sherlock made a sort of strangled moan as he ran his hands through his hair. The longer he laid prone, the more like a violent spring his body became, until with a violent explosion, he leapt from the couch, and ran around in circles. He stopped for barely a millisecond, ran to his room, got dressed and then was back in the sitting room, all in a matter of minutes. He shrugged on his Belstaff.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out!"

"Still right here, and I'll leave the cuppa for when you get back"

"And some food would be lovely"

"I'm not your housekeeper."

"It can be cold." Sherlock said as he whipped out of the flat. He bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he did so. Sherlock's quick steps went unnoticed, and he pulled out his phone, ignoring the sharp bite of the cold as his fingers moved with graceful ease to type out his message.

"How high do you think the probability is that I can piss off a drug lord enough for them to actually attempt to kill me? - SH" 

Sherlock shoved the phone back into his pocket, but also wondered how long it would take John to reply. Not long, apparently, Sherlock thought as his ringtone sang through the air. He pulled the phone out, and then answered it.

"Hello John"

"Really? That's all you have to say for yourself?" 

"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock responded, feeling the ends of his lips curl upward.

"What do I mean? Sherlock, I haven't heard from you in two days, and then you suddenly text me about pissing off a drug lord enough to have them kill you."

"Sound analysis, but I had hoped you would actually answer the question."

"What?"

"Could I piss off a drug lord enough for them to try to kill me?" Sherlock said, carefully enunciating each word, and as if it should have been obvious. There was static over the line, and then John responded.

"Are you on a case which involves taking down a drug lord?"

"No"

"Have you actually been in contact with any drug lords?"

"Not recently"

"Ok…The last time you were in contact with said drug lord, did you do anything that was so terrible that they would still want to kill you?"

"Definitely" Sherlock said with relish

"Then I'd give you a 50/50 chance."

"Really? You should know that I know self-defense"

"Wonderful, that makes you arrogant, I lower your chances down to a 40/60 chance" Sherlock laughed, and after a minute, John laughed as well. "So are you on a case right now?" Sherlock felt his face turn into a frown.

"Detestably, no"

"I guess even criminals have to take a break at least sometimes"

"Only the interesting ones. Petty criminals come and go all the time without anyone caring. But interesting, ingenious, complex criminals, those are hard to come by"

"Especially since you've put a fair number of them in prison" Even over the phone, Sherlock could hear the amusement in John's voice.

"I would think a moral man like yourself would oppose if I just let them keep going for my own amusement"

"Since you don't, it's not a problem for a moral man like myself"

"So you admit it, you're moral then"

"You're the one that guessed it"

"I don't guess"

"Yes you do"

"But you are moral?"

"I'd like to consider myself moral, but I'm hardly an unbiased judge now am I?"

"I'd disagree. Only an immoral person would be 100% sure that they are moral all the time"

"I believe that is a paradox"

"You would be correct, but that doesn't change the correctness of what I said either"

"Didn't say it did, but it does make it harder to understand"

"I fail to see why" 

"It's a paradox Sherlock, the very definition of a paradox means that it is harder to understand."

"By that account, then many things that people do for "love" are difficult to understand, but no one else seems to think so"

"Do you have an example?"

"Couples having children. They are messy, difficult, and spend a lot of money, and yet people have them all the time"

"Because they love each other and they want children."

"Exactly. Love. It is illogical and any rational human being should not give it credence."

"I disagree. I think love, in a small part, is our humanity shining through. It is our way of trying to protect the people we love, and if you want to look at it from an evolutionary standpoint, a way for humanity to survive." there was a pause as Sherlock considered this. 

"I still think that love is illogical, but I can see that I won't be able to convince you."

"Is that just your way of admitting that you don't have a rational rebuttal to that?" John said, the amusement in his voice clear. 

Sherlock, annoyed, replied, "Well how can I have a rational response to something that is irrational?"

"Ok. I'm still going to savor this moment"

"If you must" Sherlock said with a long-suffering air.

"Really? You're going to play the beleaguered one in this friendship? When I've been the one woken at all hours and during class?" John said teasingly

"Beleaguered? I must admit I am impressed by your vocabulary." Sherlock said, but all he could think about was the fact that John had said that they were friends.

"I am a man of many talents, Sherlock"

"Oh yes, doctor, marksman, and now a secret poet. One never knows what to expect from you."

"How did you know that I was a good marksman?"

"Thank you for the confirmation, but you were planning to go into the army, John, and you got fairly far along in your training, so I surmised that you were a good marksman"

"Surmised? Now who has the big vocabulary?"

"I am a genius, John, of course I have a large vocabulary"

"And modest too" John chuckled, and so did Sherlock

"It's not my fault that everyone else is an idiot"

"Of course not." John sighed on the other end of the phone.

"Sherlock, as much as I love our talks, and as glad as I am to know that you are ok, I do need to go to class"

"John, why must you be so predictable?"

"I think it is considered a good thing when doctors are predictable. After all, you don't want a doctor to arrive late to the surgery."

"But if someone is too predictable, especially a doctor, then they might not take that extra risk that is necessary"

"Duly noted, Sherlock. Now I really have to go" Sherlock could hear the low rumblings of a class behind him, so Sherlock hung up without saying anything more. He had finally reached his destination, John's little flat that he stayed at. After ascertaining that there was no one in the flat, Sherlock picked the lock and stepped inside. It was bare, nothing at all pointing to the people who lived there. The only things were a few mugs of tea that had been left in the sink, and a dirty sock that Sherlock assumed was one of John's roommates in the corner. As he went through the rooms, Sherlock was quickly able to deduce which ones weren't John's, as they were all too messy and had so many personal touches in them that didn't classify as John.

When Sherlock got to the room that he recognized at John's, he was, to put it mildly, annoyed. There was almost nothing in here to point to who John was. Nothing that would let Sherlock deduce anything much about his personal life. His room was neat, military neat, so perhaps he had gone further in his training than Sherlock had originally thought. There was a laptop on the desk, and a gun in the drawer, but other than that, there was nothing of interest in the room. Without even taking 5 minutes, Sherlock was able to deduce (not guess!) John's password. There was nothing on the laptop but papers for his medical classes. Sherlock read some of them, but after deciding that John would be an able doctor one day, quickly lost interest. 

There was only one thing of note on the laptop: John's email. There were several from someone who was apparently John's brother, a Harry Watson, and they were all asking if John would like to "catch up," and that it was "such a pity" that they hadn't seen each other in so long. John hadn't replied to any of the emails, either because he just texted him back, or he didn't want to talk to his brother. The latter was more likely, due to the sheer number of emails. 

The click of the front door opening caught Sherlock slightly off guard, and he closed the laptop quietly and then crouched behind the bed, realizing the futility of it if anyone were to give the room anything more than a cursory glance. The absence of the sound of a cane was promising, and even more promising was the sound of another of the flat's doors to close, meaning that one of John's roommates had gone to his room. Sherlock pulled his coat around himself, and then cautiously opened the door. He walked quickly to the door, and then closed it shut behind him, and then galloped down the stairs. Walking quickly, he worked his way back to his own flat, and then closed the door behind him, where Mrs. Hudson had indeed left a tray of biscuits to eat. Nibbling on one, he sat on the back of the chair, resting his feet on the lap of the chair, and then put his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes, and he thought.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for being late, but everything's been insane. Growing up is a pain.

John sat at his computer, willing his fingers to type something, anything. His therapist had insisted that this blog would help him to overcome everything that had happened, that by writing about his everyday life, he would be able to focus on the present, instead of the past. Well, she hadn't actually said that, but he assumed that was what the blog was supposed to be for. Nothing ever happened, except for one thing, but he thought it would be weird to talk about the consulting detective who randomly texted him and his psychotic, controlling, brother.

Looking at his phone now, he scrolled back up to their first exchanges and realized that it had been a month since they had first started to chat. He considered sending this to Sherlock, but figured that he wouldn't understand or appreciate the sentimentality of it. Then he decided to send it anyway.

"Do you know what I just realized?" 

"I can deduce it, but since you seem so excited, I'll let you tell me - SH" 

"That's so mature of you Sherlock. Better watch out or people will start expecting it of you." A wry grin spread across John's face. 

"I'll take that into consideration - SH" 

"Of course you will. Anyway, what I was going to say that it is precisely one month since we first started to correspond." 

"Yes, I know - SH" 

"You knew? Then why didn't you say anything?" 

"I despise outbursts of affection, and this is just such the occasion that people attach undo amount of importance to - SH" 

"They attach importance to it because it is important."

"Why is one day more important than any other? Yes, today we have known each other a month, tomorrow we will have known each over for 32 days, so? - SH" 

John placed his hands in his hair. A little sigh of exasperation escaping between his parted lips. "You know what? Never mind. I'll talk to you later Sherlock." John waited by his phone. Waiting for what, he didn't know, but it hardly mattered, because Sherlock didn't reply. John got up from his chair, and strode purposefully out of the room. Unintentionally, he slammed the door to his bedroom closed, causing his roommate to look him at him askance, and after seeing the glare on his face, he turned off the TV. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"Not at all." John said as he walked to the front door, and this time purposely slammed the door closed. He didn't know why he was placing so much importance on this. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand how big this was. How since the "accident" 6 months ago, his life had been drab and painful and just one day bleeding into another until he had met Sherlock. Sherlock made life interesting again. Yes, he was an arrogant, smug, self-centered jackass sometimes, but he was also his friend. 

John stopped by the fountain that was placed randomly on campus. There was a name engraved on it that was from some big donor to the school most likely, but he couldn't really be arsed enough to care right now. He sat down on the bench and ran his fingers through his hair. He had to get rid of this anger. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he didn't realize what a big deal this was to John, and he probably wouldn't be Sherlock if he understood how big a deal this was. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John hadn't told him that this day marked more than just the beginning of their friendship, but also the day that he had gained his limp. 

Thinking about the limp now made it almost magically appear in a throbbing symphony. John groaned involuntarily and then rubbed at it. His phone buzzed. 

"John? Did I do something wrong? - SH" John let out a short bark of unamused laughter and then responded. 

"What would have ever given you that idea, Sherlock? Perhaps the fact that I was upset, or that I was angry at something that you said?" John looked at the text, but didn't send it. It really wasn't Sherlock's fault that he didn't understand the importance of the date, so John backspaced and then started over. 

"You didn't do anything wrong. I was just upset is all" 

"So we're ok? - SH" With a hint of a smile, John replied. "Yes, we're fine."

 "Ok, good. - SH" A few seconds later, John's phone lit up with a call from Sherlock. 

"Yes?" 

"Now on to the more important things. I've just been to see Terror By Night at some terrible little theatre on the Strand. The play itself was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage! Don't worry, it's all quite simple. 

Detective Sidney Paget, played by the actor Matthew Michael, summoned the other characters to the drawing room so he could reveal whodunnit. As I'd worked out from Scene One, Lady Margaret Chaplette, had been killed by her son Albert, played by the actor William Howells. William, playing Albert, then had to, in a fit of rage, hit Sidney, played by Matthew, with his aluminium crutch. The aluminium crutch was meant to be made of rubber so that Matthew wouldn't be injured but during the interval, someone had replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with a real aluminium crutch. William playing Albert struck Matthew playing Sidney across the head with the real aluminium crutch and killed him.

 Now, the only person who could have replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with the real aluminium crutch was someone who'd had access to William's dressing room during the interval. William revealed who had been in there during the interval - the director Deborah Challis, Matthew Michael who played Detective Sidney Paget, Sarah Groenewegen who played Sissy Hastings, Jonathan Morris who played Cedric Hastings and Karen Baldwin who played the maid, Jade. As could be seen in his performance, William clearly liked a drink. At one point, during a tennis court scene that I actually thought would never end, he referred to Sarah instead of Sissy, the character she played and there were bruises on Matthew's arms where, as Sidney, he'd been struck by the character Albert Chaplette in earlier performances, but where the actor William had missed the padding stitched into the coat. I hope you're getting all this down? So the killer could have been Deborah Challis, the director or one of those four actors, five including William himself. It had to be someone who could smuggle a real crutch in and replace it without William noticing although, obviously, the bottle of gin he was knocking back would have helped.

 Deborah Challis, the director, was wearing tight jeans and a top that was far too pink and far too small so she wouldn't have been able to smuggle in anything larger than a peanut. Which would have been fine if she wanted to kill someone with a nut allergy but she didn't. After some gentle questioning from me, she broke down and admitted that she was in love with William but that he wasn't interested. At last, an explanation for why the old drunk had been cast in the play!

 Sarah Groenwegen who played Sissy Hastings was clearly having an affair with William (in real life, I mean, not in the play) so had he broke things off with her? Was she pregnant and he didn't want to know? And if so, was she trying to get revenge by getting William arrested for the murder of Matthew? It seemed... improbable but not impossible.

 Jonathan who played Cedric admitted that he didn't like William and that they'd had a fight during the interval. It turned out that Jonathan was in love with Sarah (who played his sister Sissy) and he hadn't liked the way William treated her. But again, why go to the trouble of having him arrested? Why not just kill William himself?

 Karen who played the maid Jade admitted that she'd been having an affair with the victim Matthew who played the detective Sidney but there was no way she could have hidden a crutch in her maid's costume.

 So we had two suspects, Deborah the director and Karen who played Jade, who couldn't have smuggled the crutch in. Two suspects, Sarah who played Sissy and Jonathan who played Cedric, who could have smuggled the crutch in but who didn't appear to have a motive. And then William and Matthew themselves. If William had wanted to kill Matthew then there were easier ways to have gone about it. Which leaves the victim Matthew himself.

 As Sidney, Matthew wore a long overcoat (not dissimilar to mine) so he could have done it but there are easier ways of committing suicide - even if you do want to do so dramatically live on stage. The thing is aluminium is actually quite light. There's no guarantee that a strike from an aluminium crutch would actually kill someone. But think about it, John. The bruises on Matthew's arm. William's unprofessional behaviour, the drinking, the affairs. Matthew had already complained to Deborah, the director, about William, but, because she was in love with William, she hadn't done anything about it. And that was it.

 Matthew had decided to get William sacked himself. He'd gone into William's dressing room with the real aluminium crutch hidden under his overcoat. The drunk William, busy either fooling around with Sarah or fighting with Jonathan, wouldn't have noticed Matthew swapping the crutch. Matthew's plan was for William, as usual, to hit him with the crutch, not knowing that the rubber aluminium crutch was now a real aluminium crutch. He presumably hoped it would break his arm or cause enough damage that he could sue the theatre or Deborah and ensure that William was sacked. But William, perhaps because of the fight with Jonathan, was even more drunk than usual and swung the crutch too high, striking Matthew across the head and accidentally killing him.

 So, just to make sure you've got it: The murder victim Sidney Paget (who played the detective Matthew Michael) was also the killer as he himself swapped the fake murder weapon, the rubber aluminium crutch, for the real murder weapon, a real aluminium crutch, in an attempt to get William Howells (who played the killer Albert Chaplette) fired. The plan itself backfired and he caused his own death."

 "Brilliant, Sherlock. Absolutely amazing. I don't know how you do it." John's voice was mixed with awe, as he realized both how incredible clever Sherlock was, and how some things just seemed to bizarre to be fiction.

 "It rather was, wasn't it? John, you wouldn't believe the look that Lestrade gave me when I explained all of this to him. You would think that he had the mind of a gerbil, instead of one of a supposedly well-qualified DI. As for his subordinates, they - "

 "Sherlock, before you go on some angry tirade that I know you will on the idiocy of the world, who is Lestrade?" Sherlock heaved a large, put-upon sigh of the long-suffering that made John roll his eyes.

 "Lestrade is my contact with the police, though handler, tyrant, imbecile may be more accurate."

 "Sherlock, I haven't even met the man and I know that he is a saint, so don't be so tough on him, alright?"

 "Why not John? Besides, you yourself, admitted that you had never met him, so how could you even be sure that he is a "saint", as you so quaintly put it?"

 "Anyone that voluntarily spends time with you, even when you spray such vitriol upon them, is by definition, the highest of saints"

 "If the definition of sainthood means listening to genius, then it doesn't seem such a high bar to set, John." John just chuckled softly at the indignant tone.

"John" Sherlock practically whined into the phone. John started to give a full-bellied laugh. Sherlock let out a little impatient noise through his nose.

"Well, I suppose I should just call you later, when you are in a more rational frame of mind."

"No - Wait. Just give me a second." Gradually, John's laugh subsided into occasional chuckles, and then he took another deep breath. He could practically feel Sherlock's rising pique through the phone, and considered just letting his frustration spin out even farther, but he figured he had tortured the man enough.

"Do you want the honest, rational, answer?"

"Honest, yes, though I am uncertain how a rational answer could be possible for that unmerited attack of laughter." John bit his lip to stop him from laughing again 

"Alright, at first I was laughing at your characterization of how it must be so easy to spend time with you, and then I was laughing at how much you despise not knowing anything." The silence stretched on for a few seconds. Then a loud sigh echoed through the phone.

 "You constantly surprise me John."

 "I surprise you?"

 "Well of course I would surprise you, that is the nature of who I am, but you, on the other hand, are not supposed to be surprising."

 "Oh?"

 "You know what I meant." John let a little wry grin out.

 "Yes, I know, I just wanted to torture you for a little bit longer."

 "Is this payback for earlier?" John froze a little. His walk back to his dorm had been relatively nice, but now the limp started to show it's phantom face.

 "No, Sherlock. That wasn't your fault."

 "Then why were you mad?" John ran his hand through his hair, slowly letting out one long breath.

 "Sherlock, I wasn't mad at you, so this whole point is moot. Let's just move on, shall we?" He could feel Sherlock hesitating, and then with relief, he felt the moment Sherlock decided to just let it go.

 "All right." John approached his door, where a package was in front.

 "There's a package in front of my door."

 "Really" Sherlock said in his most sarcastic tone of voice.

 "Yes, Sherlock, I am not hallucinating. There is actually a box there. I hope it's not a bomb."

 "It's not a bomb."

 "How can you be so sure?" There was another frustrated sigh from Sherlock's end. John wondered how he could infuse each sigh with just the perfect amount of self-pity for his genius wasting in the world, and with contempt for everyone else in it.

 "Because" he said, drawing out the word and yet making each consonant sharp and cutting, "if someone wanted to kill you, they would use a much easier method." With a shrug, John accepted it, and then picked up the box.

 "Well?"

 "Well what?"

 "What do you deduce?" Now it was John's turn for the long-suffering sigh, but he still dutifully looked at the box.

 "Standard cardboard, able to get it from anywhere. The size, approcimately 31 x 45 x 14.7 cm. indicates some pieced of clothing within the box. The tape is standard duct-tape as well. If it does turn out to be a bomb, maybe they'll be able to find the finger print on the adhesive part of the tape."

 "It's not a bomb"

 "Do I interrupt you when you're deducing?" There was a long pause.

 "No." Sherlock said, sounding thoroughly put out about it.

 "Then don't interrupt me. Where was I? Oh right. There is a single piece of red ribbon, and a little piece of paper with aJ on it."

 "Is that all?"

 "Well, not until I open it."

 "Can't theorize without all the facts." John started to untie the red ribbon.

 "If it's a bomb, -"

 "It's not a bomb."

 "If it is," John plowed on, "Then it was nice knowing you, Sherlock."

 "Thank you, I suppose" With the top of the box finally open, John found a long, white lab coat, like a doctor would wear, with his name on the label. There was a card, with John written on the front, so he picked it up and opened it. _You'll make a wonderful doctor._ , and then farther down the page _-SH._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case is directly from John's blog found here http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/02september . And if you guessed that John and Sherlock are going to have their first fight next week, well then, you wouldn't be wrong.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I'm sorry that this is almost a year later, but here you go, the long awaited first fight.  
> *Also I just noticed in the last chapter that I mentioned that John knows that Mycroft is Sherlock's brother, there's a bit of an explanation for that here.  
> ** Also, also, fixed some time frame issues. For the sake of the story assume John's "accident" happened 6 months ago.

Sherlock waited with bated breath for John to speak. Behind the trees, Sherlock looked at John on the door step. He couldn't see much beyond the obvious tenseness in John's shoulders and the way that he had completely frozen. 

Of course Sherlock had remembered that one month ago today, he and John had "met". How could he forget? The past month had been both the most surprising and steady month of his life. Surprising in the way that John had responded to learning that Mycroft was his brother and not some crazy stalker fan(a sigh, a "god damn all Holmes's" and then a muttered curse "to kill that son of a bitch should he ever show his posh stupid face again"). Or in the way that John had reacted to the fact that Sherlock lived in London (not revulsion but pleasure). Or in the way that John still wouldn't open up about what his accident was. 

But it was also steady because every day Sherlock had someone that he knew he would talk to that day. It was also steady because he knew that at some point their conversations would involve John trying to get him to eat or sleep for a little bit, even if he knew that the practice was mostly futile. It was steady in the way that John was steady: a comforting presence who simply was.

Right now though, it looked like that steadiness might vanish into smoke.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this?" Best keep it vague in order to find out John's true intent.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock could see John lifting a hand to his face, and a sound merging between a hysterical laugh and a long-suffering sigh came out of his mouth.

"What do I mean?! I mean what the hell is this package that you left on my door!"

"I thought it would be fairly obvious. You need a doctor's coat, and I provided it."

"HOW THE HELL DID YOU KNOW WHERE I LIVE?" Even though John couldn't see him, Sherlock took a staggering step backwards, wondering what could have warranted this reaction. Of course Sherlock would know where John lived, didn't John realize that Sherlock made sure to know everything about the subjects that he was interested in? Didn't John know how deeply Sherlock became involved in cases? Didn't John realize how interesting he was? Didn't John know that there was no way that Sherlock would just not find out all the evidence that he could? Wasn't John smarter than to be so vociferously objecting to something that should really be quite obvious?

"Why would I not know where you live?"

"Why would - Sherlock how long have you known?" There was a long pause

"A while"

"A while? Really?" John said in bitter sarcasm, "So you're telling me that the most scientific person in the world cannot give me a quantitative answer, hmmm? What? Don't have it down to the minute?"

"Really John, to the minute? That would be redundant, inefficient, and unnecessary."

"Of course it is. Of course you would nitpick at one thing that I said instead of addressing the real problem here." Sherlock could feel his own temper start to fray.

"Which is what exactly? Why does it matter that I know where you live? I gave you a gift, so what?"

"So what? So WHAT? Sherlock, you came to my home without asking my permission, left me a box that I thought could be a bomb, and you invaded my personal space. So yeah, I think it really fucking matters."

"I didn't go into your home without permission, I just left it outside your home. I also told you repeatedly that it wasn't a bomb, and I did not invade your personal space." since the time that he had gone into John's room early in their relationship, but there was no reason that John needed to know that, at least not at this moment.

"You know this is just so typical of you. Finding some way out of this through a technicality instead of through not actually being a complete and utter prick - "

"John"

"Don't John me. I'm not done yet. You are a completely insufferable know-it-all who thinks it's perfectly all right to show up at someone's doorstep without asking - ."

"John"

"I said DON'T INTERRUPT ME. Now Sherlock, you cannot do this anymore. Do you understand me? You absolutely cannot just leave things at my door step without us not actually having met first." There was a long pause.

"Can I speak now?" Sherlock tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Yes" John growled out.

"You seem to be missing the point here - "

"Missing the point! - "

"I believe it was my turn to speak" There was a low grumble on the other line.

"As I was saying. You seem to be missing the point," more grumbling but Sherlock determinedly spoke over it. "You have a gift, who cares how it got to you?"

"I care Sherlock, because I need to know that you won't just invade my privacy just because you can."

"John, I am sorry that I upset you, but I will not apologize for trying to commemorate the day in which you entered my life. I refuse to apologize for trying to show you how grateful I am. If you choose not to keep the gift you can return it to me at my home whenever you wish." A stunned silence ensued, fearing the worst, Sherlock continued in a monotone. "I understand if you choose not to continue our … association any longer, but only ask that you do not reveal any information that I have given you to the public, if not for me then for my clients." Another silence. "I guess this is goodbye then John. You will make an excellent doctor." Bitterly, Sherlock was about to disconnect the phone.

"Wait! Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"You can't just say something like that and expect for everything to be better."

"I believe that I was pointing out that it would be all right if things weren't better." A soft sigh on the other end of the line.

"I know Sherlock. I know. It's just that - this isn't normal."

"We've already discussed this. We both know how much we detest normal."

"Well sometimes it's there for a reason"

"Don't start yelling again."

"Or what? You're going to "deduce" me some more?! Then go ahead, try me!"

"Oh you want me to "deduce" you, huh? Like it's some kind of parlor trick that I use to impress people? Fine, if that's what you want I'll do it. Don't say I didn't warn you John. Now why would someone object so strongly to a gift that obviously considered forethought and would normally be lauded as "thoughtful"? There are 3 reasons, I will address the first two now: either the person is reconsidering the chosen career path represented by the gift and does not wish to be reminded of it, or as you pointed out, does not like their personal space to be encroached by anyone. Considering the unlikely nature of the former, it must be the latter. But then we must take other facts into consideration. You are aware of my methods, you know how thoroughly I investigate every avenue. You know how on many occasions it was quite simple for me to track someone down, so it should not come as a surprise that I know where you live. So then this is about more than personal space in the physical sense, which brings me to my 3rd reason: you are afraid that our association has exceeded the bounds that you want to place on it. So this is about more than personal space being invaded, obvious. Combine reasons 2 and 3 and the answer is clear. You are worried about taking the "next step" in our association and about me learning more about your personal life now and in the future. Specifically, you are afraid about me learning about your accident and the circumstances that surrounded it. You are also afraid of emotional entanglement and about having to put your trust in someone else.

"But John you are forgetting one thing. I do not believe in emotional entanglement. Whatever we have, it is merely about pleasant conversation and having someone to talk to every once in a while. Do not take this for more than it is."

Silence reigned for a long time, but Sherlock refused to be the one to break it. John started this mess, so he was going to be the one who ended it as well.

"I - I understand. You're right, I am afraid, but that doesn't mean you have the right to shove it in my face either. Some things I don't tell you because there's a reason for it, and you need to respect that.

"But how am I supposed to know if that reason is because you thought I already knew the answer?"

"How about this? Before you do anything out of the ordinary - and I mean out of the ordinary for you - you ask me first. Just ask me. That's all you'll have to do. Ok?"

"I guess that is…amenable."

"Good, good, that's settled then."

"Yes. I need to go. Good bye John"

"Bye Sherlock" Sherlock hung up. For a long while he just stared at John. He saw the gradual release of tension in John's shoulders. He saw the slump and then the long exhalation of air. He saw the laborious process of bending down to pick up the box and standing up again. He saw the pronounced increase in the severity of John's limp, and he saw John walk inside. For a while, he didn't know how long, all he saw was the outside of John's door. Shaking himself, Sherlock forced himself to look away and then he pulled out his phone.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker street - SH"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to reiterate how sorry I am about how late this is. It's been a hard time for me lately, but now I've finally got some breathing space. It didn't help that this story just wasn't calling to me. I will finish it, but the next update might not be till much later. With the way my life is right now, I have swings of absolute boredom and complete chaos (ironic, I know). I will finish this fic though. Especially when summer comes around, I should have a lot of time.   
> Question for all of you: Would you rather that I post chapters as I finish them? or finish the whole story first and then post?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one. Enjoy plenty of dialogue that I'm trying to include more of, and Molly as matchmaker. :)

John looked down at his phone and smiled. 

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker street - SH"

"Quid pro quo?" he responded.

"In a sense - SH" John was still angry at Sherlock. Of course he was, how could he not be? The idiot had found out where he lived and instead of choosing to meet him first had left him a gift on his fucking doorstep. But Sherlock was Sherlock and John was John, and as much as John tried to convince himself, he knew that normal just wasn't for him, and Sherlock was the farthest thing from normal that you could get.

John picked up the lab coat. It really was a nice lab coat. Forgetting how creepy it was that Sherlock had left it on his bloody doorstep, it was really quite nice. Experimentally John pulled it on and then looked at himself in the mirror. He frowned. Pulling the coat off, he put it back inside the box. 

For a long moment he just stared at it, trying to come to grips that this was his reality now. Sherlock had been right…mostly. But the truth was that John wasn't sure if he would be a doctor anymore, or even if he could be a doctor anymore. John stared at his hand, willing it to not tremble anymore. Then he stared at his leg, trying to shake out the limp. He frowned. He couldn't take one more well-meaning person, professor or his goddamn therapist saying that "you should probably consider changing your profession". So while Sherlock had immediately disregarded the reason that he didn't want to be a doctor anymore, John had to come to grips that his dream probably wouldn't come to fruition.

The strength of the sigh that racked through John was reminiscent of the Big Bad Wolf's against the brick house, and it was just as fruitless. A hand ran through his sandy blonde hair, his eyes staring at the lab coat. He wanted it, he wanted it so much. He wanted to put the lab coat around his shoulders, to stare at himself in the mirror and know what his future contained. He wanted to be able to say with absolute certainty that he would be a doctor. God did he want. 

With a sweep of his arms, he pushed the box and the lab coat off the bed and then with a kick swept it underneath his bed. Breathing as hard as if he had actually just run away from all his problems, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. His hands covered his eyes. He placed some pressure on his lids so that bright colors sparked in his vision to distract him from the darkness. His phone chimed with a text.

"Are you still mad at me? - SH"

"Yes I'm still mad at you. What do you expect?"

"Well it's not rational. - SH"

"If his holiness would deign to allow the common people to have some emotions, it would be so greatly appreciated"

"I'm detecting sarcasm. - SH"

"Excellent deduction"

"I am simply pointing out that continuing to be angry serves no purpose. It only creates more difficulty and makes it harder for us to communicate to one another. - SH"

John rolled his phone between his hands. The sad thing was, he understood what Sherlock was trying to say. Yes, being angry probably wouldn't help anything. But even though John didn't want normal, he also wasn't like Sherlock. He couldn't just turn off his emotions whenever it was inconvenient. But he would have to try.

"Let's just not talk about it anymore. If we do, I'm just going to continue to get angry."

"Fine. - SH" 

"But did you like the coat? - SH" John let out an exasperated little laugh. The ability to agree to drop something and then bring it up again in the space of two sentences was Sherlock's and Sherlock's alone.

"It's a very nice coat" John could imagine the half-veiled smug little look on Sherlock's face. It was hard for John to picture exactly what Sherlock would look like, but he would continue to use his imagination to pretend that he knew what his different expressions would be.

"Good. But you didn't actually answer my question. - SH"

"Drop it Sherlock. For your safety if nothing else."

" I do know where you live."

"Come John, we both know that I would beat you in a fight. - SH"

"Sherlock, I could beat you within the space of a minute in a fight."

"You always forget that I'm trained in self-defense - SH"

"And you seem to forget how arrogant you are and how easily that can be manipulated in a fight."

"I still think that I could beat you in a fight. - SH"

"Thinking and actually being true are two completely different things."

"But my thinking is highly superior to other peoples, and is more often than not, correct. - SH" John let out a small giggle at Sherlock's conceit.

"But it is sometimes wrong correct?"

"Rarely - SH"

"Then don't presume to know the outcome of a fight before it happens."

"Whatever you say. - SH"

"You still think you'd beat me, even though I've soundly trounced you with logic."

"Logic? What logic? You've simply pointed out that I'm arrogant, which I have taken into account and still predicted my eventual victory. - SH"

"Fine. Then show me your evidence for your victory, and then I'll show you mine, and we'll debate."

"Point 1: I have been trained in self-defense. I will not tell you which ones so that you cannot counter them before we even start. Point 2: You have a limp that hinders your abilities. Point 3: I am 183 cm tall, which is above the norm which I assume you are either at or below. Point 4: Your limp contributes to your lack of self-confidence, which is a much higher detriment than being overly confident. - SH"

"I can practically imagine you rubbing your hands like a satisfied ruler after obtaining a lot of land."

"That … is not what I am doing right now - SH"

"Yes it is, now for my points. "

"Point 1: You are arrogant, which regardless of what you think, is a high detriment in a fight. Point 2: While your height does give you greater reach, it also means that there is more of you to hit, and it is easier to get you off your feet. Point 3: My limp, as you yourself pointed out, is psychosomatic. Point 4: I trained with the army for a while and know how to easily and efficiently render someone incapable of fighting."

"I thought that your accident meant that you couldn't be in the army? - SH"

"I can't now, but I was in training before my accident."

"There's always something. - SH"

"Anyway, I believe I just proved that I could beat you in a fight."

"No. The results are inconclusive. - SH"

"That's as much as I'm going to get for an admission of defeat. Isn't it?"

"I neither confirm nor deny. - SH" There was a pause in their conversation.

"John, I am sorry that I upset you. - SH" And now we were back on that again. Why couldn't Sherlock just let things be? That's what this really boiled down to. Sherlock just couldn't understand that somethings were personal, and should be kept that way. A small part of his brain replied with, If you know that's just the way Sherlock is, then why are you trying to change him? 

"I know you are. I thought we agreed to drop it."

"Fine. I have to go anyway. Got a case. - SH" 

"K. Bye" John looked down at his phone, wondering if Sherlock actually had a case or if he was trying to get away from this awkward conversation. With a slight shrug, John acknowledged that he couldn't really blame Sherlock if that was the case. His phone chimed with another text. John refused to analyze how quickly his hand reached out to grab it.

"Hey, you wanna go over what Professor Truble was talking about?" It was Molly. For a second John had to consider his warring emotions of relief, confusion and frustration before he finally decided on neutral.

"Yeah, sure, I'll meet you at the library."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you ok John? You seem a bit distracted today." Molly asked him, with a concerned look on her face. John regarded her for a moment, considered how to answer. Seeing Molly's honest and open look, he decided to respond with the truth and told her what Sherlock had done. For a moment, she didn't say anything, and then she looked at him with an intent look on her face and grabbed his hands.

"John, answer me one thing, ok?" He nodded. "Does talking with Sherlock and laughing with Sherlock make you happy? Including the weird things he does, does it all come out to make you happy?" John looked at her for a moment.

"Yes, he does."

"Then why does it matter?" Now it was John's turn to look speechless for a moment.

"Because it does! You have to admit it's kinda weird."

"It is… strange" Molly said diplomatically, "But from what you've told me about Sherlock, he's not average, and so how he celebrates your anniversary wouldn't be average either."

"Don't call it our anniversary."

"Why not?"

"Because it sounds so… romantic"

"So?" John blushed a little.

"But I'm not - I mean, we're not - I'm not gay you know"

"Who said you have to be? There is such a thing as bisexuality, or pansexuality or a million others on the spectrum. The world isn't divided between gay and straight."

"I - I" Molly smiled and then patted his hand.

"It's all right John. Having a sexual identity crisis is hard for everyone. You'll get through it."

"But I'm not - I haven't even met him!"

"But you know him a lot better than most do."

"And how would you know that?" Now it was Molly's turn to blush. She nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and then ducked her head down.

"I might have met him." She said in a quiet voice.

"WHAT!" The librarian made a loud shushing sound at him. "What!" he repeated in a quieter voice, though not much quieter than before, and the librarian gave him another glare. 

"At the morgue, my uncle works there and he shows me how it works and I - well he - he came in one day, declaring himself as "Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective" asking for body parts." John gave a wry grin.

"Let me guess, your uncle didn't give them to him without a lot of persuasion first."

"How did you know?"

"He told me about it."

"Well, I tried to get his number, but he just said that he "didn't have time for such frivolous things as idle conversation""

"Yeah, that does sound like him"

"Do you - do you want me to tell you what he looks like?" John looked at her for a moment

"No. I'd rather find out for myself." Molly tried to hide a grin and completely failed.

"What, what's so funny?"

"You sound completely smitten. I guess it was silly of me to try and get his number, knowing that I knew how close you were." John just placed his head in his hands and groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided to try and go back to my original plan of posting on Mondays, but no promises. Also, if anyone would want to beta or brit-pick that would be much appreciated, if only to make sure that I stick to my schedule. Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one! Good thing is that I finished my project for government which was literally the bane of my existence and I am now in the 4th quarter of my senior year (which basically means I'm done with school) so hopefully I won't have any more actual schoolwork that needs to be done. Now I can focus on the things I actually want to do, i.e. this story. Hope you enjoy!

The case was interesting. And the Yard weren't being complete imbeciles, for once. And his brother hadn't even swooped in yet to make sure he was sober. All this together should make him feel happy. Well, not happy, he was never happy except sometimes when he was talking to John, if you could even call it that. But he should at least not be feeling so enraged and disappointed and frustrated at the whole entire world for just daring to exist!

And now Lestrade was trying to talk to him. Of course he was. Couldn't he see that Sherlock was dealing with an internal crisis right now? Couldn't he see that Sherlock just didn't have the time to deal with Lestrade's inanity? Of course he couldn't. He was Lestrade, he couldn't see something important if it was dancing in front of him with the chemical signature of Boron on it( which, strangely enough, had happened). 

"What, Lestrade?" Sherlock quipped. Lestrade let out a little sigh and then crossed his arms in front of him, lifting his head and then jutting his chin back like he both refused to be cowed and was afraid of being attacked, which might just happen based on Sherlock's mood at the moment.

"I was saying, Are you ok? You seem a bit distracted. Not like you to remain silent for this long at a crime scene." Sherlock stared at him for a moment, swept up and down his body, searching for any clues that showed that Lestrade had had some significant, life-altering moment that had caused him to finally be able to actually use his eyes. Sherlock didn't find anything. With a smug smile, he went to the only other logical conclusion, Lestrade had learned something from him on how to be an actual detective. At least one person at the Yard could. Is the man still talking?

"Yoo-hoo. Earth to Sherlock?" Lestrade said, waving his hand right in front of his face. Sherlock stepped away and then fixed Lestrade with a glare.

"What?" Sherlock hissed.

"Are you ok?"

"I am perfectly alright. I'm here, aren't I?"

"That doesn't really answer my question, but I don't think that you will answer it anyway, so why don't you tell me about this body." When Sherlock looked at him with a blank look, Lestrade amended in an amused yet exasperated tone, "or at least look at it?"

Sherlock looked around, looked at the woman on the bed. Strolled around her bed, and then moved on top of her, peering at everything that he could see.

"No obvious cause of death. Will have to wait to see what Molly finds at the lab." Sherlock moved to walk out, but Lestrade grabbed his arm, Sherlock fixed him with a glare that had made criminals' blood boil. Lestrade didn't remove his hand.

"That's it? That's all you've got?" Sherlock gave a little sniff.

"The only thing that's relevant." Lestrade muttered some words under his breath, something that sounded like, "The complete and utter nutter" and "why do I put up with this"

"Why don't you tell me everything you know?"

"Well that would take a while, since I know significantly more than you can ever hope to achieve."

"About the case" Lestrade said in an "isn't it obvious" sort of tone that was supposed to be reserved for Sherlock only. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade.

"She's engaged, obviously. The ring on the side table says so. The ring is clean, tasteful and placed in a prominent position on her side table, all indications that she was happy with her engagement, so why did she remove it? To go to bed, simply. So whoever or whatever killed her probably did so in her sleep, since there is no sign of a struggle or even a violent convulsing, which shows that she was killed with something that worked quickly and initial implication was painless, otherwise she would have jolted. As for the actual cause of death, we'll have to wait for the autopsy to do that."

"And the spots?"

"Do I really have to repeat myself again?" At Lestrade's blank look, Sherlock bit out, "autopsy," carefully enunciating every syllable so that Lestrade's tiny mind could understand. Lestrade looked at him.

"You really are off your game today. What happened?" Sherlock gave him a glare.

"None of your BUSINESS!" Sherlock said, his voice gradually rising with each word. With a swish of his coat, he was off, his normally lithe and clipped steps now stomps away from Lestrade. The idiot! Why couldn't they just leave him alone! 

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Come on! Stop acting like a child!" 

Sherlock ignored him as he stomped away. After a few steps, Lestrade threw his hands up into the air and walked away.

Just then, Sherlock's phone chimed with a text, with a movement so quick that even Sherlock refused to deduce the implications, he pulled it out and glanced at the words. When he saw it was John, his stomach gave an involuntary leap, which didn't make sense since organs cannot leap, but it seemed like his body wanted to continue to do unnatural things around John.

"Molly Hooper" Sherlock frowned down at his phone.

"Statement, question, possible sexual liaison? - SH"

"I need more data before I can decide how to respond - SH"

"Aren't you Sherlock Holmes? Can't you deduce what I mean." As Sherlock was typing an angry text back, John replied.

"Anyway, you've met her?" Sherlock searched his brain, trying to remember a Molly Hooper at any time in his acquaintance.

"Her uncle, Robert Hooper runs the morgue?" Ah yes, Molly Hooper, almost deleted but deemed marginally useful through possible manipulation for body parts.

"Yes, I've met her. Your point? - SH"

"What was your impression?" Definitely John trying for a sexual encounter. John couldn't have sex with Molly Hooper. For starters, she wasn't his type. Secondly, having a "girlfriend" would infringe on the already limited time that Sherlock and John had to communicate.

"Mousy, quiet, desperate to please, average intelligence. Unhealthy fascination with men who aren't good for her. - SH"

"Unfair, you met her once, unfair, above average, probably true." Sherlock was taken aback.

"You know her too - SH"

"Yes, we were just studying the importance of blood-splatter analysis for our idiotic Professor Truble. She said she met you and I was a bit surprised."

"Yes, we "met". Though it wasn't nearly as exciting as I'm sure she made it out to be. - SH"

"How could you possibly know that she made it out to be "exciting"?"

"Because I met her. Did she? - SH"

"Actually, no. She tried to tone it down because she knew that I knew you."

"Interesting. She's close enough to you that something that she would have normally made exciting she toned down in order to spare your feelings. - SH"

"Are you and Ms. Hooper in a sexual relationship? - SH"

"What? No! Of course not! Molly and I are just friends."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks. - SH"

"Seriously, Shakespeare? I thought you detested all things that are not firmly rooted in science and fact?"

"Shakespeare is one of the most widely quoted authors of all time, of course I would know his plays, especially Hamlet. - SH"

"I'm probably going to regret asking this, but why Hamlet?"

"Because it has most of the motives for murder all contained within one play: Love, power, revenge, accident, and mistaken identity. - SH"

"Most? I thought that covered all the motives for murder?"

"Except for the most important in today's terms: money - SH"

"Ah, of course you would like Hamlet."

"Naturally. Though most of his other works I deleted for being too sentimental. - SH"

"Isn't most literature sentimental since it isn't rooted in deep fact?"

"Unfortunately, yes that can be the case, but Shakespeare was more than a master in literature, he was also a master in the human psyche, and that is what I find fascinating about his plays. - SH"

"You just have an artist's soul and are unwilling to admit it."

"I most certainly do not. I am ruled by my head, by logic and facts and reason, not through the murkiness that is sentiment - SH"

"It's all right Sherlock, I know your secret." At this, Sherlock froze. His secret? How could John know his secret. If Mycroft told him, Sherlock was going to kill him. However, John might simply be teasing him and he wasn't the kind of person who would mock him about something like that, so Sherlock decided that instead of sounding accusatory, he should sound confused instead.

"What secret? - SH" He sent off, as much as he hated sounding like someone who was unsure of himself, he would rather that than to inadvertently let John find out what he had done.

"That you're human, body, mind, heart and soul."

"Ugh, so sentimental - SH"

"Doesn't mean it's not true"

"You do realize that the heart is just an organ, right? It has no master over your emotions and the soul is nothing more than electron signals of your synapses firing that dies when your body dies as well. - SH"

"Sherlock, you have the right to believe that, and I have the right to disagree."

"But I'm right and you're wrong - SH"

"Then a vast majority of the population throughout history is wrong then."

"People are idiots John. The "vast majority" is wrong on any number of things daily and so I would not base my assumptions of what is correct based on what the "vast majority" believes. - SH"

"So you must have a very poor view of democracy then."

"Who cares about politics? Let the politicians deal with that. - SH"

"AKA let your brother deal with that."

"Exactly. You do catch on quickly John, even if you are overly sentimental sometimes. - SH"

"I am not overly sentimental. I am a perfectly reasonable amount of sentimental."

"By reasonable you mean normal, thus overly sentimental - SH"

"I got to go Sherlock, I have a class"

"Enjoy your mindless drivel. - SH"

"It is not mindless!"

"Go, John. - SH" 

Sherlock didn't receive a response, but he wasn't expecting one either. Sherlock pocketed his phone, thinking about how close John had come to learning Sherlock's past. Considering everything, wouldn't be surprising if John found out, and Sherlock grudgingly admitted to himself (though he would never let anyone else know this) that there was a (small!) part of himself that wanted John to know his past. That wanted to tell John everything that had happened and instead of hearing the same accusatory words again, to be told that it was ok, that he was ok.

Sherlock waved his hand in the air, banishing the thoughts from his head. It did no good to think about these things, after all, John still hadn't trusted him with his accident, and Sherlock wasn't going to divulge something to John that John wasn't able to tell him first. Sherlock would just have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case, if anyone wants to know, will be the Speckled Blonde, taken from John's website.  
> Also, I couldn't resist adding the part about Hamlet, we're reading it in class and I can just imagine Sherlock being like, "a play about murder? This is mine!" hehehe


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Jade who pointed out that in the UK John wouldn't have an issue with finding money for college. I went and fixed that so now he possibly can't become a doctor because of the trembling in his hand. Thank you so much for pointing that out to me! Also, thank you to the power outage at my house which meant that I couldn't read fanfic on my phone or watch TV. Like, seriously, this chapter wouldn't have been written without it. Now on to the story...

The dull plod, plod plodding of the cane echoed through the air. The only sound accompanying it was the soft shuffling of feet moving over the sidewalk. There was no life or light around him anywhere. Soon, the people of London would be determined to light up the darkness with their Christmas lights, but it was only early November, so no lights graced the streets. John liked it better this way. There was no telling what could come behind each corner, each step brought new, dark secrets to his eyes, made his breath quicken and his heart race.

He wondered if this is what Sherlock liked too. The quiet of the night only a cover for the darkness beneath, the shifting, changing shadows of danger, of war. How so many innocents could walk over the scenes of millions of crimes that would make them blanch if they even knew the truth of one of them. How this stone, or this patch of grass, had been home to an event that led to another and to another that ruined someone's life. Or how that stone, and that patch of grass, had witnessed an event that led to another and to another that saved someone's life. John could hear Sherlock's voice in his head saying that he was being too romantic, but also the softness in the tone which meant that he didn't find it offensive, but rather endearing.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Just thinking of him brought a smile, a self-deprecating one, but a smile none the less to John's face. And shouldn't that mean something? No, of course it didn't. Sherlock, who had pulled him out of his funk. Sherlock who had shown him a new way to live. Sherlock who didn't treat him like a cripple, like someone who couldn't live their own life. Sherlock who had invaded his private space with that damn doctor's coat.

The thought of that moment still made his face grimace and his heart beat as adrenaline rushed in to meet his anger. Sherlock was always violating his personal space. Well…Sherlock was always violating people's personal space in general. Every time Sherlock told him another story about one of his cases, Jon would always marvel about Sherlock's intelligence and ingenuity. It was only later that night when he would realize that some of Sherlock's methods were probably not good.

A hand went through John's hair as he sighed. _I guess the reason that it bothered me so much was that it was me_. And wasn't that hypocritical? John gave a despairing little laugh and then decided that he wasn't going to do that anymore. He wasn't going to pretend anymore. He wasn't going to say that Sherlock shouldn't violate his personal space when he laughed and praised Sherlock when he did. He wasn't going to long for Sherlock to tell him more about his personal life, and then go and scream at him when he found out about his own.

Without knowing exactly how it happened, he suddenly had his phone in his hand. His finger rubbed over it unconsciously, his mind playing through all the possible scenarios that could come from this action. With a deep breath, he opened his phone, found what he was looking for, and then set out on his way. Even though he knew that this act that he was about to do should make him more nervous than anything, the only thing that filled John as he walked was a deep sense of calm, of rightness. He pulled out his phone again and made a call.

"John?" a deep voice answered. No matter how often he heard it, John still marveled at the deep, impressing tones.

"Hello Sherlock"

"I assume there's a reason you called?"

"You mean I can't have just wanted to hear your lovely voice?"

"Not that I'm not flattered John… but yes" John barked out a laugh.

"How did you know?"

"Because you never do something without a reason, you are very deliberate in what you do, even if you don't know the full reason for it yourself. So why don't you tell me what your reason was."

"Fine, I'll tell you. But I don't want you to interrupt me until I finish, ok?"

"Ok"

"Good. Alright then, I'll guess I'll just start. Remember when you left that gift on my doorstep?" Sherlock made an affirmative noise. "Well, I was thinking about that and I realized that you were partly right on why I was so angry about it. I was angry because you had gone into my personal space, and I know that I should have been able to guess that you would know where I lived, but I just couldn't handle it. It's hard for me to be able to let anyone know anything personal about me, and you leaving that package on my doorstep was like you saying that you could find out anything personal about me and do whatever you wanted with it.

"And I realized how hypocritical that was Sherlock. Because I _know_ you. And I know how you go about your daily life and I know how you figure out your cases. And I'm not saying it's the right thing to do, but I also know that I praise you too often for that trait to become angry when you do the same thing to me. But I did. Because you did it to me. Because up until recently, well up until I met you, I have never let anyone else in. No one else has ever encroached on my personal space because I never let them far enough in to have the chance to.

"I guess what I'm trying to tell you Sherlock is that I have trust issues, at least that's what my therapist tells me, and I think she's right. It's hard for me to be able to let my guard down around other people, to let people help me, because I can never be certain if they'll demand something back in return. I don't open up, I don't let people in, and you putting that package there reminded me that I couldn't really control whether or not I let you in, because you would force your way in anyway" John let out a despairing little laugh.

"Because you have Sherlock. As hard as I've tried, you managed to find a way to force yourself into my heart, to make me care about you, and hope that you care about me too. I know that you probably find this overly sentimental and terrible, but I don't care, you need to hear this.

"Sherlock, the reason I haven't wanted to meet you yet is because I was afraid. I knew that it wouldn't be fair to you to meet until I told you what happened, because you're so much more than just a random stranger Sherlock, and I wanted our first face to face meeting to be true, with you knowing everything important about me.

"I know you've wanted to know about my accident and why it was so traumatic for me, and I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but every time I thought about it, I always came up with an excuse. But not now Sherlock, now I want to meet you, and I won't let this stand in the way anymore.

"About a year ago, I signed up for the RAMC, at first there wasn't much to it, I didn't tell anyone that I had signed up, though most people who knew me knew that it was a dream of mine to go. Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted to serve queen and country and I knew I would join the army. My parents always acted like it was a cute phase, "Look at little Johnny, off to save the world" they would say and the laugh as if were highly amusing.

"About 6 months ago, I knew that I would finally have to tell my parents, because I was about to be shipped off to boot camp, so I did. I went to their house and told them that I was signing up. I thought that they would be happy for me, finally reaching my goals, instead they were upset. "I thought you were going to be a doctor" they said, "How could you leave us like this?" they demanded. For what seemed like forever, they tried to dissuade me from signing up, saying that they were only trying to help me. I tried to tell them that this is what I wanted, that even though I knew it was going to be dangerous, that I wanted to help my country. Eventually, I told them that I had already signed up and that it was too late. That's when it got ugly. My father was furious, he demanded to know how I could keep something like this from them, what would the neighbors think when they heard that their own son hadn't told them? I told him that I didn't care what the neighbors thought. He said that he didn't care what I thought, I wasn't going and that was that, and he sat down as if calmly pushing aside my dreams was as easy as that. I told him that he was a coward and I would do what I pleased. I left to the sound of my father yelling and screaming.

"I stomped down the street, and I barely heard anything over the sound of my own fury in my chest. I didn't even register the sound of a car approaching me until it honked twice, I looked over and saw my father, his face contorted with rage, I turned and walked away, and then - and then - " John took a deep breath, trying not to break down as he steadily continued walking down deserted streets "he hit me from behind, at first I didn't feel anything, and the only thing I remember distinctly is seeing his car driving away and then there was pain, like you've never even imagined.

"The next few weeks were hard. I was in the hospital, the doctors kept asking me if I knew who had hit me, and I said that I hadn't. My parents came in and cooed over me when the nurses were there but when they were gone they said that it was "for the best". When it became clear that I wasn't going to get better any time soon, the army rescinded their offer and I was left wondering what to do with the rest of my life.

"And so I kept going. Not really living, just going through the motions of someone who was. And then I met you Sherlock, and you brought life and color back to my world. You made me laugh and you made me angry and you made me feel something for the first time in what seemed like forever. For so long I had been walking around, an empty husk, pretending to have emotions that I didn't really have, and even though you sometimes make me angry and exasperated and upset, you make me feel something, and I would much prefer that to the emptiness before.

"Sherlock, you mean so much to me, and there is no way for me to ever fully repay you for everything you've done just by being yourself. You see, when you gave me your address, I knew that I wasn't going to use it until I told you all of this, but now that I have, I want to meet you face to face. Could you do that? Do you still want to?" John gnawed anxiously at his lip, hoping, praying that Sherlock would say yes. Hoping that his life, his story wasn't too disgusting for Sherlock, or more likely, that it wasn't as interesting as he'd thought and he would just walk away. Praying that Sherlock wouldn't say that he didn't return John's sentiment, or that he was repulsed by it. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Please say something Sherlock, anything?" When he finally answered, his voice was quiet, perplexed.

"Do you - do you really mean that?"

"I meant every word." There was another long silence on the other end of the line. John was determined that this time, Sherlock would break the silence when he was ready.

"Then yes, I want to meet you." A brilliant smile broke across John's face.

 

"Then open the door." There was a small gasp of surprise on the other end of the line, and then the sound of pounding footsteps, and before the door was opened, John had one final, clear, incandescent thought. _Whatever happens, whoever I become, I will never leave his side again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they're about to meet! Yay! I know that it seemed kind of abrupt, but I realized that I had gone through 14 chapters and over 20k words and they still haven't met yet. This is what I get for not outlining things. I am going to try and move this story along more quickly now.  
> Just a heads-up, I decided to cut Moriarty out of this story completely. Cases will still be in there-ish, but they'll be stolen directly from John's website and used more as background and to establish that Sherlock is a consulting detective. This story will be more about Sherlock and John's respective pasts in my head and how being together helps them to move on from what had happened to them. (Don't worry, Sherlock has secrets too that I want to explore)  
> Also also, I'm graduating in a week, so I should have more time for this story. These past few months have been crazy because I had a tough course load in school and was working. But now I'm just working so I should have time for this story. No promises though. Hope you enjoyed and see you next time :)  
> *There was a little problem with italics that has since been corrected


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest reading the last chapter if you haven't in a while since it kinda jumps straight back in. Also, I'm going to put a longer explanation for the delay at the bottom so you can just start reading.

"Then open the door." Sherlock could hear the slight rasp in John's voice of nervous anticipation, and he imagined that if he could speak at this moment, his voice would sound much the same. Instead, he could only release a small sound of air leaving his mouth and then couldn't breathe again. This is what John Watson had reduced him to, a man who couldn't even perform the vital functions of life. And yet he didn't care.

He raced down the steps, his feet appallingly loud and revealing just how much he cared, and yet his mind couldn't seem to break out of the cycle of John Watson is at your door! There was one brief moment at the door where Sherlock seemed to remember himself, remember the calm, icy exterior he had long cultivated to the outside world, and smoothed down the front of his shirt. And then he flung the door open with all the force that he could muster.

For a moment, they each just stared at each other, and Sherlock took in everything that he hadn't been able to deduce in a text or a phone call. Tired, emotionally and physically, revealing about his parents was difficult, doubting his decision to tell me, anxious about meeting me for the first time. Then Sherlock blinked, and one part of his brain wondered why he couldn't get anything more than that. The other part was still screaming the inner mantra John Watson is at your door!

"Hi" John said, a small smile breaking across his face. Hi? What was he supposed to do with hi. Oh right.

"Hi" He said somewhat breathlessly. John swayed back and forth where he stood, his earlier look of apprehension falling into a look that was bemused, amused, completely self-assured and slightly nervous. Sherlock just marveled at how one person, one being can be so many things at once, and he smiled. "Come on in," He said, opening the door wider. They walked up the stairs in silence, and Sherlock pretended that their shoulders brushing didn't leave a phantom feeling in his arm. 

He opened the door, and made a wide sweeping gesture with his hand to indicate the room. John looked around, his eyes alighting on one piece to the next, Sherlock anxiously looking around, wishing that he had thought to tidy up, but the mantra in his voice(now changed to John Watson is here!) was still overpowering every other thought process. 

Finally, John looked at him, and where before it had been a medley of emotions that Sherlock had feasted upon, know it was a blank state that left him wanting more, and then John smiled, and it was like the sun broke out behind the clouds. Sherlock unconsciously felt himself smile too.

"You know, this is both nothing like what I thought it would be and exactly how I thought it would be" Sherlock wrinkled his brow, trying to rationalize such a paradoxical statement. John laughed out loud, and Sherlock kept his face completely blank, unsure of how to respond.

"It's just that I was expecting not knowing what to expect." Sherlock's brow wrinkled further. John appeared to be holding back a massive attack of giggles. "I mean look at you - " he said, his hand waving vaguely in Sherlock's direction, as if gesturing to Sherlock's essence. Unconsciously, Sherlock looked down at himself as if by looking he could figure out what John meant. All he saw was the same bespoke suit that he always wore, the same dress shoes. Just his same old, too skinny self.

Without his noticing (how could he not have noticed, he always noticed everything) John was suddenly in front of him, his hands twitched forward for a second, as if he was about to reach forward and then decided against it. With a wry smile, he reached his hand out.

"John Watson" He said, his smile growing larger. "It seems we skipped this part" Sherlock smiled back.

"Sherlock William Scott Holmes"

"Oh we're saying full names now?" He said. Sherlock tilted his head at him, trying to puzzle out his tone. Teasing yes, it was teasing. "Well you're going to have to put in more effort to figure out mine."

"You've seen what you've done now, don't you?"

"And what is that?" He said, his head tilting slightly to the side, the tip of his pink tongue just barely touching his lip. Sherlock leaned in, his eyes unconsciously pulled toward that pink tongue.

"You've given me a challenge." John kept staring at him, not moving away from their close proximity.

"And you're not the type to back down from a challenge, are you?" John said with a wry grin. His face very close to Sherlock's now. Sherlock suddenly realized how close their faces were, how easy it would be to just lean in a little further…he pulled back, giving a slightly fake grin and said, "I never back down from a challenge, and I always win."

"Oh really?"

"Yes really." John quirked his eyebrow up at Sherlock again and Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "The fact that you can drink more than me does not count as winning"

"I really think it does."

"If you think of it logically, then in fact I won that argument because my body is able to get drunk with smaller amounts of alcohol and so I win economically by having to buy less alcohol.

"Or you're a light weight" Sherlock just scowled at John's bright, seemingly innocent grin that hid the mischievous smile. The sound of soft footsteps coming up the stairs echoed through the room and before Sherlock could even really fully register them, Mrs. Hudson was entering.

"Sherlock, what have I told you about staying up so late. Honestly, I - " she finally noticed John and stared at him, then she stared at Sherlock and then back to John, and then pointedly back at Sherlock. For a moment they all stood there, the silence festering, until John finally sighed and cleared his throat, drawing Mrs. Hudson's attention back to him.

"Hello, I'm John Watson, pleasure to meet you." It seemed that Mrs. Hudson was broken out of a trance as she looked at John, and a smile lit on her face as she reached her hand out to shake his.

"The infamous John Watson, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you." John shot a surprised look at Sherlock that Sherlock could only numbly return, his brain still not seemingly fully back online yet.

"You've told her about me?" But instead of Sherlock responding, Mrs. Hudson said, 

"Oh yes, he's told me such wonderful things! In fact it seems as if he - " With belated horror, Sherlock cut her off.

"Yes, yes, it is so lovely to see you Mrs. Hudson, but shouldn't you be in bed?"

"You don't tell me what to do young man! Honestly these young people thinking they know better, it's as if they forget we were ever young." She continued to mutter to herself as she walked down the stairs. John looked as if he were trying to hide giggles as he looked at Sherlock until they finally both broke and started laughing.

"You're never going to be not interesting, are you?" John asked, when they finally calmed down, both of them somehow on the floor next to each other now. Sherlock froze, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Gently, John grabbed his chin and turned him towards him. Quietly, Sherlock started panicking, but he forced his body to not betray any emotion.

"Don't ever change." John said in a quiet voice.

"As long as you promise the same" Sherlock said, his throat oddly choked up. As if he suddenly realized what he was doing, John dropped his hand, his cheeks turning bright pink. He cleared his throat and winced as he stood up, grabbing his cane from where he had dropped it beside him.

"I - I should go" he said, his gaze turning towards the door, his head slightly down. Sherlock felt his face fall involuntarily at being separated from this man right after he had met him.

"You could stay here."

"In your bedroom?" John said, quirking one wry eyebrow.

"There is a spare bedroom, and even so, there is a perfectly fine bed in my own room that I wasn't planning on using tonight anyway." John gave a little sigh of exasperation.

"Sherlock, you need to sleep too, you know that right?"

"Already a doctor"

"Sherlock" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine, I'll sleep as long as you sleep here too." John gave a brief nod and started to go up the stairs, before gradually turning back to Sherlock.

"And how do I know that you won't just come right back out to work on an experiment right after I fall asleep?" Sherlock looked at him, his mouth opening and closing before he gave his feet a frustrated scowl. John seemed to straighten up, his body going into battle mode. "Then there's only one thing for it." Sherlock looked up at him, curious. "We'll have to sleep in the same bed. I assume that's the bedroom and bathroom?" John said, his voice determined, and determinedly nonchalant. 

"Yes" Sherlock murmured quietly, and John turned on his heel and walked into the room, no trace of a limp in his walk. 

After a second, Sherlock followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! And thank you so much if you're still reading this fic. I know it's been forever since I posted, but RL has just been kicking my ass and making me super busy lately. Uprooting your whole life is kinda difficult, both time wise and emotionally and I've been having to make the adjustment to college pretty quickly.  
> Anyways, I want to say that I'm going to update more often but we all know by now that I am completely unreliable when it comes to this fic so I won't make any promises. However, I will be posting weekly updates to my tumblr (http://newestfangirl.tumblr.com/) about how long(approximately) it will be till the next chapter. Also, it does make me happy that the timeline of this fic is now pretty much synced up to real life timeline (as in calendar days) so I might use that to motivate me to write.  
> I also want to give a humongous thank you to my new suite mate, Monica, because without her this chapter would not have been written. Like seriously, thank you.  
> Also, next chapter should be interesting...I don't even know where I'm going to take it yet, but bed sharing is always fun! I hope you enjoyed it!


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